Sandstorm

by Alan L. Lee

  The limo pulled up alongside a host of other chauffeur-driven stretch vehicles. There was a person dressed in a dark suit to greet him, or rather to open the door for him, as no words were spoken. Trying not to be overly impressed, Senator Lipton took his time exiting, his eyes taking in the enormity of it all. From the looks of everything, it was as if the property had a weekly salon appointment. Not a thing was out of place. The house sat on three acres of land that backed up to the Potomac River.

  Property like this rarely came on the market—at least, not for regular people. For many motorists traveling along Chain Bridge Road, the smattering of homes and their super-sized opulence could only slightly be seen during the winter months when some of the foliage fell away. This avenue of prosperity, just across the Potomac River on the Virginia side, dwarfed what one imagined as being well-off.

  As if he had stepped on an automatic opener, the double doors to the mansion gave way as he approached. Upon entering, he noticed but paid little attention to the two servants who held each heavy door open. A butler, or he could he be the concierge, officially greeted him in the expansive foyer.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said with a slight bow of the head. “Please follow me. Mr. Daniels and the others are assembled.”

  Lipton glanced at his watch as he followed the hired help down the hallway. He wasn’t late, but he got the impression he was the last to arrive. How many cars did he see out front? He tried to count, but the house had diverted his attention. The walls of the hallway were lined with works of art, many of which he had seen before—only in pictures or a PBS special. He recognized a Renoir for sure, and because of his love of the sea, he slowed down upon encountering a piece of Winslow Homer’s work.

  They stopped at a huge wooden door, which, judging by the butler’s knock, was thick enough to stop large-caliber gunfire. Laboriously the door swung open, and immediately the heavy aroma of cigar smoke greeted Lipton. There were six men in the room. Some puffed on cigars, and nearly all had some sort of beverage in hand. In unison, they all took notice of Lipton’s presence.

  “Ah, Bryce, damn good to see you.” The greeting came with a smile and extended hand. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Scotch and soda will do.”

  “Coming up.”

  Lipton followed the estate’s owner to the bar. According to Forbes and other business journals, Roger Daniels was sixty-four years old. If you believed what you read, Daniels worked out religiously every day. He also found the time to manage his nearly 22-billion-dollar financial empire that spanned the globe. Looking around, Lipton noted that if a bomb were to hit this room, the stock market would take a nosedive of historic proportion. Except for himself, this was a billionaires’ club. A single billion wouldn’t even get you on the grounds. Aside from Daniels, only one other individual was somewhat known by face in financial circles. The rest operated in relative obscurity. Yet, over the past three years, Lipton had come to know them all. There was no mistaking, though, who garnered top billing. This whole assortment was the brainchild of Daniels. At first these men would gather to exchange ideas and talk about future business opportunities and markets in the world. Then, Daniels realized their scope and influence could achieve so much more. To prove it to the others, he single-handedly engineered a coup d’état in a small corner of the world that wouldn’t draw much attention. Thus was born the Global Watch Institute. With its unheralded financial arm, the institute did plenty of charitable work and was recognized worldwide for bringing food and medicine to the hungry and sick. It also had the kind of clout that was capable of influencing political elections, both domestic and abroad.

  With a swig of his Scotch and soda, Lipton found himself conversing and listening to the musings of men who could shape global economies just by picking up a phone and having a short conversation. Lipton admired that kind of power, but he knew he’d never achieve it the way these men had. He wasn’t even close to being a blip on that radar. But there were other ways. He knew that, and so did Daniels, which was why the two had found each other.

  “Gentlemen,” Daniels said, immediately silencing the room, “let us proceed with the business at hand.” He led the delegation to a long mahogany table crafted several centuries ago, restored to perfection. Everyone took a seat, looking to Daniels, naturally at the head of the table.

  His face was thin, giving way to well-defined cheekbones. The grey sown between his remaining black hairs gave him an air of sophistication. He spoke four languages fluently, and his many travels around the world had produced an uncanny awareness that certainly served him well in monetary matters.

  Daniels acknowledged each man before continuing. “My friends.” Daniels extended the palms of his hands as he spoke. “We are on the brink of our greatest achievement. A daring and bold act for sure”—he raised an accusatory finger—“but, one that truly will reduce some of the madness that exists today and no doubt prevent, or at least halt for a considerable time, tragedies that surely will occur if nothing is done.”

  One of the billionaires, whose fortune was obtained by managing money for others, interrupted. “Playing devil’s advocate here,” he began, looking at his fellow members, “isn’t the president heading in the right direction? Like some investments, the return takes time.”

  Daniels took up the argument. “Years and counting in Afghanistan. Way too long in Iraq. Thousands of US troops dead and a public that’s fed up. Conflicts that have now spanned three presidents. We have a country that’s losing its stronghold and its way.” There were a number of nods of agreement. “Time is what we are running out of. Unthinkable before, other nations now test our resolve, knowing that a strong response from the US only weakens our global position. We had a terrorist madman responsible for attacks on US soil—the success of which spawned followers that grow in number by the day, thinking we are soft. Things must change. Things will change. We are here for the long haul. We have the means and opportunity to change the course of history. We can make this once formidable country great again. It’s time for the weak and uninitiated to get out of the way. The question is, are we ready to proceed? Senator?”

  Bryce Lipton enjoyed being on stage. He was the go-to guy for the various network and cable television outlets, a frequent contributor to the Sunday morning network political talk shows. He gave good, concise sound bites that fit within the framework of a story, and he did so in ways that endeared him to the camera. He could be engaging and sarcastic or a wolverine when on attack. For years, the one thing Republicans had lacked was charisma. They offset the deficiency in the past by promoting themselves as the serious party. Lipton understood none of that mattered right now. It was time to deliver. You couldn’t dazzle these men with bullshit. Their vast empires were built upon one simple principle: results. They were poised, waiting to hear if the plan was worth their investment of money, time, and ideas. Lipton also understood if he failed here, his political future would be nothing more than a footnote.

  “I think it’s important at the moment to make sure all of us are still in agreement,” said Lipton, taking command of the room. “Walk away now if you have second thoughts.”

  There were no defectors, not even from the one billionaire Lipton thought to be the weakest of the group. He came from a good East Coast family, attended the right schools, married the right girl and generally sided with the do-gooders of the world. It was a positive sign that he remained seated.

  “Very well then,” Lipton acknowledged. “A lot of hard work, as you know, has gone into this undertaking. To answer your question, Roger, everything is on schedule and moving forward.”

  “So Baum has procured the materials?” Daniels asked.

  “Shipment is waiting for when we want it. He’ll handle the transaction and then make a considerable profit on top of what he already has, thanks to you gentlemen. He’ll then authorize the transport to Iran, and that will happen once the materials are inspected.”

  “And the Israeli contingen
t?” Daniels followed up.

  “In the shadows, omnipresent, ready to move when we give them the green light.”

  “Are you absolutely sure we can trust them?” the billionaire whose profit was garnered from computer software chimed in. Ian Novak was a familiar face, having been the subject of several technology-related articles and interviews. It was a fair but bold question, considering one of the members of the group was Jewish.

  “Frankly, this wouldn’t be possible without their expertise and willingness to see this through.” Lipton glanced at the lone Jew for a moment to see if there was any reaction. He kept quiet on the surface, but he had to at least suspect that others in the room, at some point, had wondered the same thing.

  The most private of the men in the room, Dominick Rourke, spoke next. Lipton had developed a great deal of respect for him. Rourke didn’t scare easily, was Princeton educated, and carried himself with a quiet calm. He was also the youngest of the group and not married, which made it even more of a challenge to remain totally off the radar. Lipton anticipated a well-thought observation.

  “Senator, my only hesitation at this point lies in the potential of this not being as secret as we’d hoped,” Rourke said. “And certainly, once it’s done, there’ll be several loose ends that have to be tidied up. The potential for exposure is already there with the messy situation concerning the woman from the CIA. Compounding that is her protégé’s being still unaccounted for, with knowledge of God knows what. To make this more troublesome, there is the fact that your son has history here. How long or difficult is it before someone starts connecting the dots?”

  Lipton remained composed, despite the mention of his son. If he weren’t sitting here and weren’t a part of this, Lipton envisioned they would have done something already to remove what they perceived as a potential problem. As always, though, Rourke’s thoughts were on point. Lipton could foresee the day when the young man from Arizona would be the head of this group if it lasted that long.

  “Dominick.” Lipton addressed him as if he were the only other person in the room. The technique worked well to appease the pompous egos of network news people. “My son is well insulated in this matter. Necessary steps, as you recall, were taken a while ago to put us in a position to proceed, and yet, the woman from the CIA persisted in being a threat to our success. Her removal unfortunately was unavoidable. It’s true, her protégé is in the wind, but if she had anything of substance, I wager we would have felt the fallout by now. Still, the search for her is widespread and ongoing.”

  Lipton didn’t feel the need to reveal that Nora Mossa had found someone to assist her. He was privy to the exhibition at Dupont Circle. Surely, though, she was fishing, and in this case, the body of water was huge.

  “As far as loose ends, rest assured that measures are already in place to do what needs to be done.”

  Daniels formed a devious smile. He looked at the faces around the room and realized he was on the brink of completing a monumental achievement. There for the taking was a chance to change an entire culture. Huge profits would eventually follow, and they’d be in place to take those as well. And the best part was, no one would ever know. Daniels raised his glass in a toast. “If there is nothing else, I take it we are all in agreement in saying, the time has come.” Hands went up around the table. There were no disbelievers. Daniels looked at the man who wanted to be president of the United States. “Senator, you have the green light.”

  Lipton nodded and instinctively checked his watch. In another part of the world it was way too early and risky for him to make a phone call or send a direct, unsecured e-mail, no matter how vague its wording. Besides, a procedure had been established, and even though it would take another day, he had to resist the momentum of the room. For the moment, as the last of his Scotch and soda slid down his throat, Lipton could rejoice in knowing that “Sandstorm” was now fully operational.

  CHAPTER 20

  Alex found that getting the ten thousand dollars he’d requested was a lot easier than calming Nora down. Her main purpose in life now centered on killing Davis Lipton. She was convinced of his involvement in her friend Erica’s death. Alex needed more proof to be sure. That’s where he hoped the money would come in handy.

  Under the name of Nathalie Tauziat, Nora arranged for two separate five-thousand-dollar transfers to two different banks. Both ING and Deutsche banks were within walking distance of each other along Avenue Marnix. The first transfer came from a bank in the Cayman Islands, the second from an account in Cyprus. It was all done quickly and without incident. Alex had sent Nora into the banks on her own. She wore a wide-brimmed hat to circumvent surveillance cameras, making facial recognition that much harder. Anything that kept her mind off Lipton was worth doing.

  The withdrawn funds were basically seed money from the CIA. An agent with Nora’s status needed funds readily available in case of an emergency. She had been entrusted with a total of thirty thousand dollars. It was enough to offer a bribe or secure an escape route if needed in a hurry. She had split the money into several smaller fractions, depositing it in various banks around the world, under various names. There was a total of twelve thousand dollars under the name Nathalie Tauziat, an identity she had never used before or reported to her superiors. The remaining funds were under names the CIA knew, and they would stay there, because surely those accounts were being closely monitored by now.

  A block away from the Deutsche Bank, she hopped in the car driven by Duncan. Nora then put all ten thousand dollars into two large brown envelopes. The packages bulged slightly despite the denominations being large bills. She made a call to Alex’s cell, and he instructed that the money be delivered to him as fast as they could catch up. Sensing they were running out of time, Alex hoped his instincts would prove correct. He maintained a leisurely pace through the congestion at Louise Square, a nexus of people, cars, tramway and metro station. As he pressed on, the fashionable section of Avenue Louise lived up to its nickname of le goulet Louise—the Louise bottleneck. Two tramway lines and an endless flow of vehicular traffic marched through the narrow street. Taking an interest in all the distractions, Alex snapped pictures occasionally with a palm-sized digital camera. While Brussels passed by on a different pace, he was a man in no particular rush. He got another call from Nora, and turning around, he located the car making its way down the street. He maneuvered himself between two parked cars, giving off the appearance of wanting to cross the street as he waited for Duncan to pull up. Duncan slowed down as if looking for a parking space while Alex moved against traffic in the narrow space along parked cars. In an instant he took the two packages from Nora like a running back receiving a handoff from the quarterback. They disappeared inside his jacket just as fast. The car darted off, and Alex returned to the sidewalk. When he focused on the people, he didn’t see what he was looking for, which he took as a good sign. He wanted to make it as easy as he possibly could. He continued on his previous path. A shopper’s delight of designer stores, coffeehouses, and chocolate offerings lined the street. Alex made a point to stop and look through the windows of establishments as he passed. He paused in front of one shoe store to take a picture, studying the reflection off the curved glass front as he snapped away. A smile creased his lips as he saw what he hoped would be there. As he resumed walking, his pace quickened, and a couple of blocks later, he turned down a quieter street. With camera in hand, Alex gave the appearance of intently focusing to get a shot of the street’s architecture. He never took the picture because the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel was pressed against his side. There was a considerable amount of mass behind it, semi-pinning him to the wall of the building, the free hand placed on his shoulder for added leverage. To an onlooker, it would seem like two acquaintances, sharing a private talk.

  “You’re either terribly horrible at surveillance or you want to get my attention,” the voice breathed hotly into Alex’s ear. He then shoved the barrel into his kidney for added emphasis. “Which, by the
way, you have.”

  Alex tolerated the mild discomfort from one of Tobias Baum’s bodyguards. “I admit, I’m a bit rusty, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  “Why?”

  “Look, if I didn’t want you to see me, we wouldn’t be having this Hallmark moment.”

  Alex’s solid build and casual demeanor made an impression. Even though he was holding the gun, the bodyguard had a sense this could go either easy or hard. It was still early in the day, and easy sounded good.

  “I’m hungry, but then you should know that, since you’ve been on my ass for a while. There’s a place to eat a couple of blocks back. This better be damn good,” the bodyguard said as he withdrew the gun from Alex’s side. He motioned for Alex to lead, staying a couple of steps behind, the gun now resting in a side pocket of his light windbreaker, his hand still firmly attached.

  So far so good, Alex thought.

  CHAPTER 21

  The two strangers sat across from each other in the quaint restaurant, separated only by a small square table. Neither had had to suggest their strategic seating arrangement next to the large window. Each could watch the other’s back as they looked out upon the intersection of Rue de Florence and Rue Veydt. The restaurant was understated, the kind of place that had word of mouth to thank for its survival. For those who discovered it, the payoff far exceeded the expectations. If it weren’t for the architecture beyond the glass, this could have easily been a culinary establishment located in New York’s SoHo district. Having already placed their order, they took a nonverbal moment to determine who would take the next step.