Sandstorm (8 page)

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.”

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.”

Champion pondered his options and realized at the moment, they were few and far between. “Keep with it. I need all eyes on this. Mr. Bonderman, Mr. Jennings, again, thank you. You can get back at it now.”

Once Bonderman and Jennings exited, only Peters and a woman dressed in a smart business suit remained. Sara Garland didn’t visit Langley often. Being around suits and management was, for her, the epitome of boredom. After a couple of trips, the mystique of the compound sort of lost its luster. There was no comparison to being out in the real world, in the thick of things.

The sun hadn’t been up for long, and already Champion could feel the initial onslaught of fatigue. A busy workday would force the symptoms to subside. “Sara, profile this for me. If you’re Nora Mossa, how are you moving about?”

Though Sara held him in the highest regard, she didn’t feel the slightest need to impress Champion. Before she had worked with him, she had heard through the grapevine that he respected ability. She had been pleased to discover the grapevine had been right, and he had subsequently become a mentor to her career. The folder in front of her contained a great deal more information than the packets distributed to Jennings and Bonderman. Before she could respond, Champion interrupted, his eyes pacing back and forth between Garland and Peters. “I’m sorry, it just occurred to me you two don’t know each other. Sara Garland, Karl Peters.” An obligatory nod followed the introductions.

“Karl, I asked Sara to do background work on Mossa once she went AWOL in Rome. She’s pretty much up to speed. And Karl, if you’re up to it, you two might be working this together.”