Sandstorm

by Alan L. Lee

  Alex leaned closer to Mr. Green and could feel his accelerated breathing. “We’re going to have to talk about a pay raise,” Alex muttered, reassuringly patting him on the shoulder.

  He walked past Nevsky, who had a satisfied look on his face, as if he had figured out the magician’s tricks. “He worries a lot,” Alex quipped. “He thinks I don’t pay enough attention to details.”

  Alex was at the point of praying himself. He’d been all ears for hours as Duncan had given him an education on centrifuges. With unlimited Internet searches and access to a CIA database at his disposal, Duncan had given Alex a crash course on the latest advancements in the field and how the devices were put together. He had also worked the phone, calling every expert he knew. After their cramming session, Alex had felt secure enough that he could at least talk a good game, provided there were no major design surprises. Having studied and analyzed thousands of complex football formations and game films for years, Alex had developed an uncanny ability to retain large sums of information for a brief period of time. Eventually stuff got purged, but for now, he was counting on every ounce of retention.

  Alex knelt down and scanned the cylindrical object. It was around five feet long, and as he ran his hand along the ringed exterior, he could tell it was well crafted.

  “I need to see one open or disassembled,” Alex said over his shoulder.

  Without hesitation, Nevsky snapped his fingers. His men immediately brought around another open crate, this time from a different truck. A hole, virtually the length of the cylinder, had been cut out, so that the guts of the centrifuge were visible and easy to explore. Alex worked from top to bottom with his hands. Mr. Green stood close to Nevsky, observing intently his associate’s inspection, straining to get a better view. Alex nodded his head approvingly. Duncan was quickly becoming his hero.

  “Carbon fiber, excellent,” he said, talking to no one in particular, but just loud enough for those close to hear. “This is very nice craftsmanship. All in working order,” Alex said, still going over the merchandise. “But now, if you will … indulge me, Mr. Nevsky. I’d like to see one unassembled. Just the inside pieces, please. Specifically, the bottom bearing, the upper and lower scoop, and the rotor.”

  Nevsky stood in silence for a moment, summing up the situation. “So far you are satisfied with the IR-2?”

  Alex rose to his feet, not bothering to look at him. “I’m satisfied with the IR-3, which we both know these are.”

  Nevsky exhaled, “Excellent,” in Russian. “I’m satisfied on two fronts.” Nevsky talked to one of his men, speaking strictly in Russian. He put his arm around Mr. Green. “They will bring you the individual parts to inspect. While you’re doing that, I will have Mr. McBride look over the inventory. We need to get the merchandise loaded onto the transport as fast as possible. I don’t want to continue being a torch in the wilderness much longer.”

  Nevsky led Alex to the back of each truck in succession, all of which were now open. They were also filled to near capacity with boxes containing centrifuges of the same type he’d just handled.

  Taking in the magnitude of everything that had led to his standing in this isolated airfield, Alex was at least convinced of one thing. Someone had put some serious shit into motion.

  At around one fifteen, Nevsky’s phone rang. He walked a few steps away to gain some privacy. At times during the conversation, his tone was agitated. The candid discussion was in Russian, but Alex twice heard Mr. Green’s name mentioned. When he ended the call, Nevsky gathered his thoughts before calling two of his men over. They listened, nodding all the while before being dismissed.

  Alex bristled as Nevsky came back his way, reaching inside his jacket, his gaze solely fixed. The Russian was quite skilled at killing. If this had to be the place, so be it, but Nevsky would die first. With no weapon, Alex just needed him to come closer. Nevsky would feel totally safe with all his men about.

  He was now fifteen feet away. Keep coming, Alex calculated. He looked around. Only one of Nevsky’s men was casually interested, his focus shifting between his benefactor and the men now starting to load the plane. His automatic weapon was in a relaxed position.

  Ten feet and closing, Nevsky’s hand was still in his jacket, moving slowly.

  Alex had made up his mind. He’d first render a blow that would make it easy for him to overpower Nevsky, despite the man’s bulk. He’d use the leverage to shield himself against the closet guard, who would hesitate to take a shot with his boss in the way. Alex knew his time would be measured in milliseconds. The guard, unable to get a clear shot, would sound the alarm. Though wounded, Nevsky’s survival instincts would likely kick in as well. If he was to have any chance of escaping, Alex would have to act quickly. That meant that with Nevsky in a headlock, the lethal thing to do was snap his neck. Alex would then hold Nevsky’s slumping body up just long enough to retrieve the weapon from inside his jacket. After that, he’d shoot the nearest guard. Luck would play a major part in his next move. Hopefully, the guards would come running and expose themselves. He’d be able to surprise a couple and take them down, causing the others to exercise caution. In that opening, he’d sprint for the darkness and take his chances outrunning his pursuers. If he didn’t make it, at least he’d die knowing Nevsky had left this world first and at his hands.

  The Russian was now five feet away.… Alex needed just another foot.

  Alex’s adrenaline rush suddenly dropped, as if a ton of ice had fallen from the sky. When Nevsky’s hand came out of his jacket, it held a pack of cigarettes. He shook a single one to the top and grabbed it with his mouth. His other hand produced a lighter. He took a long drag before matching it with an equally long billow of smoke.

  “Damn things, I’m trying to quit.”

  The smell hinted at the tobacco’s potency. Alex knew that in time, cancer would get the job done. “Those things can get you killed, you know.”

  Nevsky’s eyes followed a smoke trail. “You sound like my wife now.” He let the cigarette dangle from his mouth as he signaled with a hand. “Mr. Green,” he yelled. “Get over here.”

  Nevsky took a couple more drags before flicking the cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with a twist of his foot. “Just a few puffs. As I said, I’m trying to quit.”

  Mr. Green was now by his side. Nevsky stepped forward to watch the operation of crates being unloaded from the trucks and onto the plane. “Everyone is satisfied. The people on my end can now have a good night’s sleep. The Iranians are probably praying to their God. And now it’s time for you to go. Your money is in the back seat. Mr. McBride, good-bye as well.”

  Mr. Green wasn’t going to wait around for Nevsky to change his mind. He motioned for McBride to get moving.

  Nevsky didn’t say anything as he unconsciously reached for another cigarette, but Mr. McBride bothered him somewhat. He passed the test, but still, the man seemed out of place. Nevsky didn’t press it, but felt as if he’d seen him somewhere before, and in his line of work, gut feelings weren’t dismissed so easily. But he was never going to run into him again, so it really didn’t matter.

  The dead were the dead.

  CHAPTER 43

  The stretch limo kept up with the flow of traffic as it glided down Rock Creek Parkway, easing through the remnants of the evening’s rush hour.

  Dressed in formal attire, Roger Daniels occupied the seat behind his driver. He didn’t let on that he was slightly perturbed at having to interrupt his soothing massage of classical music. It was how he preferred to pass the time while being driven. Daniels could sense the worrisome crease on his own brow. He knew from years of self-observation that it was not a good look for him. Early on, like a poker player tipping his hand, it had betrayed him in some financial dealings. He was a quick learner, though. If he couldn’t fully correct the problem, he’d learn to use it to his advantage. As his portfolio had expanded, Daniels had discovered the forehead crunch could be intimidating, conveying volumes in the absence of a spo
ken word. As one of the world’s richest men, Daniels subscribed to the adage of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. He had no illusions about Bryce Lipton, who sat next to him. He was a friend born of convenience.

  Granted, Lipton possessed a number of personality traits that served him well. He was hard-working and bright enough to understand the big picture. A career politician, Lipton had the kind of power and influence on Capitol Hill that not even huge quantities of wealth could procure. Money could get you access and favors, but stability, whether in the form of respect or intimidation, could satisfy far more valuable wants and desires within the system. Thanks to years of getting his hands dirty, Lipton unquestionably operated in the inner corridors of power. Daniels had benefited from that access on a global scale. And yet, he felt there was more to conquer, and Lipton was a key to that.

  For years, the senator had been satisfied with just being a major power player on the Hill, but associating himself with Daniels offered a new possibility, one difficult for a huge ego to pass up. Daniels had convinced Lipton that with his help, being president of the United States was attainable. Like himself, Lipton was a hard man to gain influence with, but Daniels had gambled and succeeded in offering the ultimate prize. The thought of having a president in his pocket was like mental Viagra for Daniels. It would be a luxury for four years, not four hours. He was even getting better at tolerating some of the man’s shortcomings. For now, he’d live with it.

  “Bryce, you know I would never—”

  The senator cut him off. “Yes, but what about Ezra?”

  Daniels exposed the crease, as if giving the thought some consideration. Truth was, the subject had come up in conversation with the Mossad spymaster more than once.

  “Not even Ezra would exercise that option.”

  “For his sake, I hope not. This is my son we’re talking about.”

  “Bryce, now is not the time to panic. We’re so close to finally seeing this come to light.”

  Daniels stared out the window, aware of his destination looming on the horizon just opposite the Potomac. He flicked at some lint on his trousers.

  “In fact, I talked with Ezra within the past hour, and the merchandise is being loaded as we speak. Now, in order for that to happen, your son would have had to make contact. That’s how it was structured. The way you wanted it to be done.”

  “Yes, but I still haven’t heard from him. Maybe we should talk with the man in Tbilisi.”

  Daniels’s limo fell in line behind similar vehicles inching forward to allow their occupants to depart. The waiting attendants were hustling to assist and keep the line moving. Exiting from each car were Washington’s elite: impeccably dressed, the women accessorized with sparkling jewelry. Like other monuments in the nation’s capital, the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was a treasure. It had hosted its share of dignitaries, presidents, and some of the finest entertainment the world had to offer. Tonight, it would see hundreds of thousands of dollars pass through its doors for a fundraiser.

  Before Daniels signaled his driver to unlock the door, he turned to Lipton.

  “From what I gather, because they are in transfer mode, no one is reachable by phone. Too dangerous at this point. Someone could be listening. And besides, it’s only a matter of hours before Ezra’s cleanup program begins.” He rested a hand on Lipton’s arm. “Seriously, Bryce, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your son. He came through. You should be proud. Think of the future.”

  Daniels motioned to his driver, and the doors were unlocked. An attendant swung the door open, and Daniels rose to exit. He peeked his head back inside. “Richard will drop you wherever you need to go.”

  The door closed, and the partition separating driver from passenger was lowered.

  “Where to, sir?”

  Lipton sat back. He didn’t have an answer readily available. He sighed.

  “Just drive for now.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Sara Garland’s field experience wasn’t extensive, but she understood limitations. She knew that not even a so-called superpower’s clandestine services could adequately staff every region of the world. There was no James Bond in Luanda, Angola; in Harbin, China; or in Barbados of the Lesser Antilles.

  The Republic of Georgia presented a unique set of circumstances. Its location represented a golden opportunity to have an ally within arm’s reach of countries worth monitoring. When the door had opened to possibly making friends with Georgia, the United States couldn’t get a foot in fast enough. The move had angered Russia and had given Iran something to lose sleep over.

  The association also allowed the CIA to justify placing a small staff in place full-time. Sara had put those scarce resources on alert upon departing Brussels. They’d already proven useful by delivering the packages containing weapons, money, and pharmaceutical supplies. More support would be available if Sara and Nora needed it, but there were limits. Removing a body or two was manageable. A killing spree, on the other hand, would be impossible to contain. More weapons and ammunition were obtainable, and a couple of doctors were on call to treat a knife or bullet wound if necessary. Money was there for emergencies and so was the ability to secure new passports. Some things they were better off accomplishing on their own. They were, after all, operating in foreign territory and had no knowledge of the personnel. The least amount of information they provided, the better.

  Five minutes after entering Janko’s suite, Sara let Duncan in. Nora was in the hotel lobby, catching up on her reading while keeping an eye out for anything suspicious, like Mr. Janko suddenly reappearing. It took Sara and Duncan roughly fifteen minutes of searching before they discovered Janko’s hiding place. His stash was taped to the back of a curtain, above the hem inside the lining. The contents of the oversized manila envelope were laid out on a table. There were several passports and driver’s licenses: British, Czech, and Danish. Each contained the name Victor Janko, so that much was probably true. Sara took pictures of the documents with her camera phone and e-mailed them directly to Langley. There was also three thousand dollars in euros. Duncan took interest in a memo pad.

  “Janko must have a sketchy memory.”

  “What do you have?”

  Duncan tapped the memo pad with a finger. “Maybe he only remembers the passwords but I’m sure these are routing and bank account numbers.” He handed them to Sara, who once again sent copies to Langley. They put the contents back in the envelope and returned it exactly the way they’d found it in the curtain. They double-checked the suite to make sure everything was in its proper place. Satisfied, they quietly left.

  CHAPTER 45

  He didn’t bother to silence the vibrating hum emanating from his phone as it danced on the night table. It would stop soon enough. Yadin remained motionless in bed, his eyes staring into the darkness.

  He tossed the sheet aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He checked the text message, which confirmed what he’d suspected. He sent a short text of his own and set the phone back on the nightstand. Thirty minutes later, he was refreshed from a shower, shaved and dressed in slacks, a polo shirt, and comfortable shoes. He grabbed an already packed suitcase and vacated the room. The hotel lobby was quiet this early in the a.m. A weary doorman was surprised to see a guest checking out at this hour. He was about to ask if the man needed a taxi when one pulled up in a hurry. All that was left for the doorman to do was open the door. His gesture was met with a tired, “Danke.”

  Yadin handed the driver his desired destination written on a piece of paper in Arabic and English. The Kuwaiti taxi driver, who was getting paid good money to be here at this hour, took a peek in the rearview mirror for confirmation and shrugged his shoulders. He had been cautioned the trip might be unusual, but if that was where the man wanted to go at this hour, that was where he’d take him. A couple of years ago, the taxi driver would never have made the trip, but the coalition forces and subsequent handover to trained Iraqi soldiers made the trip less of a lif
e gamble. Still, one made the journey with caution. Providing the necessary paperwork, they passed through the border crossing with no problem.

  In the distance, even in the darkness of night, Yadin could make out the Rumaila oil fields as they stretched for miles. Acts of sabotage on the various pipelines and wells were a rare occurrence now. The message had been ruthlessly sent: you don’t halt the pursuit of serious money. Oil was a major income producer.

  Yadin was thankful for the night air blowing through the open windows. It certainly helped to drown out the heavy cigarette smell and whatever other foul ways of life the driver preferred. Yadin passed the time going over what he’d already committed to memory. It was not unlike being an actor, prepping for a part, waiting for the cameras to start rolling. When a mistake could mean your life, going over the details again and again was not a problem. They rode in silence for most of the way, the driver recognizing his passenger was not the talkative kind. Yadin rebuffed the feeble attempts at conversation by pretending his English was not very good and Arabic was a lost cause. “Businessman” was all he gave the driver in shaky English. The driver formed a disapproving, sour look out of view. He considered his backseat occupant just another foreigner trying to rob the poor in a region rich with opportunity. But as long as his pockets were lucratively getting filled for trips such as this, the taxi driver gladly put up with such behavior. He had to put food on the table for his family. Still, there was something about his passenger that made him feel uneasy.

  Relieved, the driver rolled the taxi to a stop. Looking around at the eerie isolation, he shook his head slightly before speaking slowly in English. “We are here.” A handsome amount of money was handed over. The sound of the door shutting was akin to a drum banging in a cavernous, empty concert hall. Yadin watched as the taxi spun around and hurried away. He took a deep breath and walked toward the large, locked iron gate, the centerpiece of a fence line that ran for miles. On the other side, two men watched with interest. One was leaning against a Mercedes sedan, having a smoke. The other, behind the wheel, had awakened after the smoker tapped the hood a couple of times. The smoker barked orders for the uniformed guards on duty to open the gate. The second man shook off the last remnants of sleep and got out to join his partner. Both looked at each other as the stranger casually strode through the gate. His arrival was certainly low profile for one who was to be treated so royally. If he was that important, why not fly into Tehran and receive a dignitary’s welcome instead of sneaking into the country under the cover of darkness just outside of Basra? The answer to that, of course, was beyond their need to know, and they dared not ask. Their orders had come from their superior, who’d received them from his boss, and ultimately, it was rumored, the directive came from none other than the secretary general of the Supreme National Security Council himself. They were directed to speak only when spoken to and to treat the visitor with the utmost respect. If there was anything he wanted, they were to get it for him.