Sandstorm

by Alan L. Lee

  “Here you are, sir,” he said, placing the bill in front of the man with the blank stare and scarred skin. There was no going back now. He then went to the other side of the table and started to stack the dirty plates.

  “This is the wrong bill,” the man said disgustedly.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “This is not our bill.” He held it up as evidence.

  The new hire came around to the man’s side, positioning himself at an angle slightly behind him. To gain leverage and a firm stance, he rested his left hand on the table. The man laid the bill out and explained that they didn’t order that much food. The young man listened and pretended to examine the bill. While doing so, he slowly reached for the back of his pants. The move was shielded from the man sitting across the table by the mass of his partner. And besides, both were concentrating on the bill.

  “My apologies, sir. In fact, I don’t think you have to worry about paying, at least not for this,” he said. Before the man could look up to ask what he meant, he moved swiftly, cupping the man’s chin with his left hand, forcing it back strongly. He was no longer that weak little boy with tiny hands. His right hand came into view and the long, sharp butcher’s knife in it ripped a deep straight line through the man’s neck. The blood splattered across the table, partially blinding his friend. That was an added benefit for the young man as he made the short steps to be within arm’s length. With all his might, he drove the knife directly into the second man’s heart, jerking it while it was inside to achieve maximum damage. When he withdrew the knife, he returned his attention to the first man. He had heard that sound before. Nine years ago, in fact—the last desperate gasps of air escaping a life. The rest of the restaurant’s patrons started to realize what was happening, and the place filled with screams and customers rushing to exit. The young man reached into his pocket and laid a photo on the table.

  He made sure Dead Eyes was focusing.

  “Remember him?”

  The man, of course, couldn’t speak as he fixated on the image of the soldier wearing an Israeli army uniform.

  “You killed my father nine years ago and then stabbed me when I tried to help him,” the young man whispered in his ear. The man remembered now. Stabbing a boy had only occurred once in his life, and until now, he had thought little of it. In a strange way, he admired his attacker, even as a final thrust was plunged into his back.

  Weeks after the incident, even though authorities had no clue as to the assailant’s identity, his mother was deathly afraid for his well-being. He had killed two high-ranking Hamas members, and although the Israelis wouldn’t press very hard to find him, the militant group was paying good money for information. They had to avenge this act. His mom, meanwhile, reached out to an old friend of her husband’s. She knew that in doing so, it would more than likely mean severing contact with her son, but she knew of no other way. Word of the young man had spread throughout the ranks of those who would be impressed by such deeds. One of those people was a friend of his father’s who’d ascended to more meaningful work within the walls of Israel’s secretive Mossad intelligence group. At the urging of his mother, he decided to listen to his father’s friend. What the man offered seemed to make sense, and it was appealing. Intense training ensued. The young man proved to be smarter than the majority of recruits, physically gifted, and above all, seemingly oblivious to danger. He turned out to be a natural for Mossad’s Metsada division, which was responsible for the agency’s special operations assignments. His mother would have never believed her fun-loving son, the one who spent years making her laugh, had turned into one of the most skilled and feared operatives Mossad had ever produced. He proved to be a propaganda success story as well, because the Arabs had given him near-legendary status, fearing him immensely. To make matters worse for those who sought to harm Israel, there was no accurate description for the man Arabs called “The Devil.”

  His real name was Nathan Yadin. He had killed many since that day in the restaurant. He often struggled spiritually with the violent nature required to get the job the done. And yet, even though he truly didn’t like killing, he was not one to hesitate when the time came. Through his training and situational adaptability, he now possessed a diverse and lethal skill set. Because of his reputation and expertise, it was necessary for him to live outside his homeland. With a price on his head, there were those who hunted him on a continual basis, as if this were the Old West. They might as well have been chasing shadows.

  He guarded his identity so closely that not even his handler knew of his true residence. Each requested meeting was arranged by e-mail, and the location was always his choice someplace in the world. No discussion. On this particular encounter, he realized he was taking a gamble. Not with the man he was due to meet, but by the location he’d chosen for the face-to-face. He actually lived on Île Saint-Louis. The last half hour had been spent walking around, getting a feel for the crowd. It seemed normal enough for an early evening. He’d decided to take the meeting here because he was tired, and once it was over, all he wanted to do was have a short walk in order to collapse in his bed. The last two weeks had been especially taxing, and there had been virtually no time to relax while in Washington, DC. His only pleasure had been polishing off a bushel of crabs one night at a Bethesda, Maryland restaurant.

  Yadin really couldn’t complain too harshly, though, about his work. He was well compensated for his troubles by the Israeli government, and in addition, opportunities sometimes arose for him to make money off the books. There was once a Hamas official who pleaded with the Devil for his life, offering millions in a foreign bank account to spare his pitiful soul. Yadin accepted the offer but rejected the terms of the contract. He eventually collected the money, knowing that not doing so would ultimately result in its funding the deaths of countless others. Thus, he could more than afford the pricy lifestyle of the upscale Paris neighborhood. His command of the language was flawless and his love of the culture immense.

  Yadin continued on his path, pleased it would permit a guilty pleasure stop. There was already a line forming outside Berthillon ice cream parlor, a Paris institution. Rather than wait outside, he made his way through to the tea room in the back and found a seat. Shortly after, he returned to the street with ice cream cone in hand, appreciating the little things that made life enjoyable.

  Unfortunately, it was time to double back a couple of blocks to take his meeting. Along the way, he checked for all the faces cataloged in his memory from having just traveled this way. He once again encountered those that were supposed to be there and was satisfied that others had moved on. Just ahead was a face he knew very well. Over the years, he had watched it progress from youthful vigor to its current state, which was approaching retirement. Time had proven it to be a face worthy of his trust. But not even this face knew he lived just a few blocks away. It was better for both of them that way. If the old man were ever kidnapped, he wouldn’t be able to resist intense torture, and if he knew where Yadin lived, he’d be forced to give up his location. The two men exchanged a heart-felt hug. As a youngster, Yadin remembered the numerous occasions that Yosef Ezra had been a visitor in the family’s home, a dear friend of his father’s. It was Ezra his beloved mother had reached out to in a plea to protect him.

  “You look tired, Nathan,” Ezra said, a well-placed hand gently nudging him forward as they began to stroll.

  Yadin didn’t try to hide his discomfort. “Washington was draining.”

  “But successful,” Ezra confirmed. “The woman was resourceful, a credible threat to our success. You did well.”

  Ezra knew the words would comfort his former protégé. He had become a perfectionist, a man who took pride in getting results. This was not the same playful, joyous child he’d first encountered in the Yadin household, the apple of his father’s eye. Instead, the events that shaped his life had produced a calculating, meticulous, distrusting and all-too-deadly man. The perfect weapon for Mossad. At first, Ezra had his doubts
. A near-fatal stab wound had forced Nathan to miss his father’s funeral. That alone would crush the spirit of any youngster who’d worshipped his father, let alone watched him die. When Ezra met him again years later at the request of his mother, Nathan had grown into quite the young man, possessing qualities that reminded Ezra of his father. But he was no longer fun-loving, that much was evident from the very beginning. He was distant and seemingly unconcerned about the danger he was in for killing two prominent Hamas members. Ezra had sat with him until the wee hours of the morning. There was something special about the young man. Ezra had presented him with three options. He could flee the country and start over elsewhere in the world. Or, like his father, he could join the Israeli defense forces and opt for a career there. His college studies had already given him exempt status from mandatory service in the military, but surely, it was much too dangerous to return to collegiate life. Nathan had accepted the third option. That was when it had been revealed to him that Ezra served as a high-ranking official for Mossad. No guarantees were given, but based on their lengthy conversation, Ezra had told Nathan he thought a rewarding career was there for the taking. In the long run, both had come to understand that the right choice was made.

  “The next and most important phase is progressing on time,” Ezra said now. “The shipment is in transit. Your studies are up to date?”

  Yadin chuckled. “Do you really want to hear a lecture on how enriched uranium can form the core of a nuclear bomb?”

  Ezra returned a smile. “Perhaps some other time.” He came to rest at a spot that offered an excellent view of the Seine and the brilliant lights of Paris across it. “As we draw closer, my concern is that we have never asked you to do anything of this magnitude. There are so many variables. Any one of which could fail.”

  “I trust you’ve done your homework as well, Yosef. The world is filled with danger, and the potential of this particular threat can no longer be ignored or accepted. While we strive for peace, we cannot let our guard down against the wolves howling at the gates.”

  “As you know, there will only be a shell of support available to you. Everything must fall into place.”

  “You’re the master planner.”

  “Even I am capable of overlooking something. We’ve launched this effort on so many fronts. There is support from the West, but not fully.”

  “Have faith, Yosef. You’ve dedicated years of planning to this operation. And was it not you who taught me to always expect the unexpected?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Alex was knocking back drinks like it was happy hour, but there was definitely nothing to celebrate. He had thought he’d be on his way to Chicago to see his parents, having said a final good-bye to Nora, dismissing her paranoia in the process. Instead, her mind was probably in a fog, as his was. She was crossing the Atlantic by plane headed for London after boarding at Philadelphia International Airport, once again traveling under the guise of Nathalie Tauziat. What she didn’t know yet had Alex and Duncan slightly on edge as they lounged in the sitting area of his Mayflower Hotel suite.

  Alex took another swig of his rum and Coke. He was trying to get a grip. “Okay, okay,” he said impulsively to his friend Duncan sitting next him. “The guy from the CIA had to be a freaking coincidence. He made a phone call after he was in Starbucks and then started asking questions.”

  “I’ll give you that. But”—Duncan sat up on the sofa to gather papers from the coffee table in front of him—“the Department of Defense and the FBI! Who knows who the hell showed up after I booked. She’s on a serious watch list.”

  “Yeah, it’s fucked up, all right. I’m not sure what the hell I can do here. I’ve been out of the loop for too long. This isn’t my thing anymore. I should have stuck with my initial impulse and not gotten involved.”

  “That was an option, mi amigo,” Duncan said, tapping Alex’s chest with a couple of fingers. “That ol’ heart of yours, though, wouldn’t let you do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”

  Duncan could tell his friend was at a crossroads. He wanted to walk away, but he had given his word, and now Nora was depending on him. That she was a former lover only made it tougher.

  “Look, for what it’s worth, you looked pretty damn efficient out there today,” Duncan said, raising his drink in a toast.

  Alex exhaled as he fell back into the sofa’s cushion. “Physically I can get the job done, but this requires a whole lot more than muscle.”

  “You’ve still got some connections out there. You pulled today off. Like it or not, you got involved. Getting Nora on a plane for London to do a job, you’re already thinking ahead. She’s a strong woman, but right now, she’s alone and the world is getting smaller. Janway was killed for a reason, and judging by today’s circus, some people are very nervous about her association with Nora. So, from where my drunken ass is sittin’, you don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Is that right? Well, I suggest you pack a bag as well, because you’re in it now too.”

  Duncan chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Where are we going?”

  “You said you recognized a name in Janway’s little packet of misinformation?”

  “Yeah. A big player on the black market. This guy could get you ice water in hell.”

  “To hell it is, then.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was obvious the director of the National Clandestine Service was not a happy camper. George Champion was known to be calm under fire, so his present demeanor warranted treading lightly. Little had been said so far during this hastily scheduled early morning meeting.

  The four other people seated at the lengthy, polished table were anticipating the fall of the proverbial axe, even though none of them felt responsible for the matter at hand—none, except for the man with the bandaged face, for whom the others unconsciously made plenty of room.

  Karl Peters used every ounce of concentration he could muster to remain focused. The stitches just below his hairline tightly sealed a nasty gash that was extremely uncomfortable. The bandage under his black and blue right eye made it challenging to focus. Every move of his neck painfully reminded him of his carelessness. He was holding off on taking the prescribed painkillers because he wanted to remain as lucid as possible.

  Champion lifted his head from the folders in front of him, briefly diverting his eyes to Peters. The man was like a devoted dog with little bite. Peters didn’t have much field training; his present state was evidence of that. He should’ve still been under observation in the hospital with the concussion he suffered, but he refused to accept the doctor’s recommendation, promising instead to take it easy.

  Seeing Peters’s condition only served to raise Champion’s blood pressure. He was pissed someone had given his operative a swift, calculated beat down. That wasn’t all he was steamed about, though. The rapid response by several government departments to a Nora Mossa sighting was puzzling. Such cooperation usually didn’t manifest itself so readily.

  Every person seated at the table had a folder in front of him or her, and all were given ample time to familiarize themselves with its contents. Champion interrupted the silence with a bit of sincerity. “Karl, are you sure you’re feeling up to being here? Your presence, though helpful, is not totally necessary.” Champion knew the answer before Peters waved him off.

  Careful to keep his head still, Peters replied, “Thanks for your concern, sir, but I’ll be just fine.”

  Studying the contents of the folder had kept Champion at the office until nine o’clock last night, much to his wife’s frustration. He surveyed the group, and then began speaking as calmly as he could.

  “We know Erica Janway and Nora Mossa had a working relationship that developed into a friendship. We also know that Mossa, for some reason, is on the run and hasn’t communicated that she wants to be brought in.” Champion’s eyes scanned the room once more. “Judging by the events of yesterday, we can say with certainty that she’s not out there alone.”<
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  A bespectacled Adrian Jennings, who didn’t feel comfortable in the suit he had scrambled to find in the back of his closet when news of this meeting awoke him, felt Champion’s attention land on him. “That’s right, sir,” he said, reaching for his notes. “Ordinarily, there would be surveillance video from a number of sources in the Dupont Circle area, but all the cameras in the vicinity of that Starbucks were circumvented for thirty minutes. Static interference on every one. It’s highly unlikely that was a coincidence.” Jennings shook his head. “This looks like a very professional jamming job, and going through Miss Mossa’s background, that kind of expertise is not there. We’ve been monitoring all transportation outlets, but that takes time. For the last twenty-four hours we’ve been concentrating on those in the US.”

  Champion extended his appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. Jennings. Mr. Bonderman, how is she getting around?”

  Jason Bonderman was thankful to realize that his time, like Adrian’s, would be short, and he just wanted to get it over with. Being in closed-door meetings with the upper-floor types was not his forte. “She undoubtedly has access to good fake documents. It’s the only way I see that she’s getting around. If she uses any of the agency-supplied aliases and documents, red flags will go up immediately, but I don’t anticipate that happening. She’s too skilled to make a mistake like that, unless it’s intentional, which I believe yesterday was. The debit card she used is her personal one. Her credit cards have not been used, though the accounts are still active. Find the name she’s traveling under, and we can establish a pattern and pin her down. Of course, there’s the chance she could change identities at any moment. We can freeze her debit and credit cards, but I suggest we keep them open should she use them again.”