Sandstorm (13 page)

The bodyguard stopped toying with his meal and took a long hard look at Alex. Several seconds later he raised an index finger as he searched his mind for a thought. “There was a story once about an incident in Jalalabad,” he began. “Turned out to be a real shitkicker of a dogfight. The kind that has you praying to Momma, God, anybody who could get you out of that hell alive. A so-called reliable informant led a small group of Rangers right into an ambush. They fought hard and hunkered down, but then two of ’em got snatched during the firefight. There was enemy fire all over the place, so no way in hell was a CH-47 going to risk flying in for a rescue mission. About two hours later, they’re almost out of ammo when they hear a chopper a few clicks away. Next thing you know they have a clear path to the south and were told to hightail the fuck out of there. Our guys take off in that chopper, but word is a small unit, ten or twelve guys led by a ghost, stays on the ground to search for those two missing Rangers. Now, back at HQ, nobody’s getting any sleep that night, and just before dawn, we hear a Chinook coming in. Damn if getting off that chopper in the early morning dust aren’t the two missing Rangers, a bit bloody and banged up, but safe. That chopper also unloads a team of Special Forces guys, except for one individual who remained on board as it took off. Later in the day it’s confirmed the mystery man was CIA. In and out. The rescued Rangers also say he found that ‘reliable’ source and put a bullet through his head. If memory serves me right, that ghost’s name was Alex too.”

“It’s a common name. And one thing I’ve also learned, it’s a pretty small world.”

A hand was extended across the table. “I’m Michael Craftson.”

Alex shook his hand. “Pleasure to know you.”

Craftson took a moment to consume some of his food. He washed a good portion down with a gulp of water. “Now, you mentioned my current employer, and you’re right, tonight is probably going to be a rather late one. Every now and then Baum likes to go clubbing,” Craftson offered. “He has a meeting as well tonight, though. Look, I’m not really sure how much I can help you. He’s a very careful guy. He just likes to get out every now and then, flash some cash, and feed on the excitement.”

“Do you know how Baum makes most of his money?”

“I was briefed by my company before taking the job. Everything I’m privy to seems aboveboard. He trusts me to a certain extent. He has to, when you consider I’m looking out for his wellbeing, but when he has serious business to do, and I assume those are matters off the books, that’s usually done in total privacy. On those occasions, I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell.”

“When did you come on board? Were you around when his partner went missing?”

“I was hired shortly after the Ostermann thing. Before you ask, he doesn’t talk about it. He touched upon it briefly at the beginning, explaining that in his line of work, shit happens.”

“So it didn’t seem as if the Ostermann thing spooked him all that much?”

“It could have at one point, but by the time I arrived, he seemed cool. Maybe it’s his business savvy, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind who loses much sleep.”

“Who’s the other guy I see with you guarding Baum?”

“His name is Reynolds. Comes from a different service. Baum likes to mix things up like that, but I’m the one he likes to keep close. I suppose I got a glowing report from working in trouble zones around the world, with no slipups to my credit. But Reynolds is capable. There are three other guys that take over when we’re off shift. That’s when Baum definitely has down time—usually doesn’t leave the house too much then, or certainly reduces his range of motion. The big stuff—extended time in public, serious business meetings—that’s me and Reynolds watching his back.”

“What do you know about the guy who visited Baum last night?” Alex cautioned Craftson with a shift of his eyes. A few seconds later, the waiter appeared and asked whether they needed anything. Craftson said they were fine. He didn’t begin talking again until Alex said it was okay to do so.

“He calls himself Davis. I’ve never heard a last name,” Craftson said, looking out at the comings and goings on the street. “But that’s how Baum likes it. He doesn’t want us to know everything.”

“His last name is Lipton,” Alex said.

Craftson raised an eyebrow.

Alex nodded. “Yep. His son.”

A disturbed look engulfed Craftson’s face. “So is there an operation in place to take Baum down?”

“I wouldn’t know for certain, but I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

Craftson leaned back in his chair, none too happy. “Son of a bitch. This is damn good money.”

“You mentioned this is going to be a late night for Baum. Why?”

Craftson seemed lost in thought. “Michael,” Alex said sternly. “Michael, I need you to focus here. Like I said, this might not be what it looks like on the surface.”

“Then why else would a guy from the CIA, whose father happens to be a Washington bigwig, be fucking around with a dangerous person like Baum?”

“How do you
know
Davis is CIA?”

“Like I said, he smells like government. But unlike most, he doesn’t do a good job of concealing it. He might as well be wearing CIA cologne.”

“Which means Baum knows he’s CIA too.”

“I don’t see how he couldn’t. He’s not stupid.”

“So, there’s your answer right there.”

Craftson looked at Alex, seeking more clarification.

“If Baum knows Davis is CIA, he wouldn’t do business with him, unless he was sure this wasn’t a sting operation. No, the business is real. What it is and the motivation behind it is what I’m trying to figure out.”

Craftson’s nerves eased considerably. Alex’s observation made sense. “Well, their business will probably conclude tonight. Baum likes to celebrate the closing of huge deals. We’re supposed to be at the You Night Club around midnight. Davis and Baum are supposed to meet at twelve forty-five. Baum more than likely will bring his laptop along.”

“Sounds like a transfer of funds,” Alex spoke the words tossing around in his brain. “A couple of keypad strokes and millions are floating in the air from one account to another, all in a matter of seconds.”

“Please tell me you don’t intend to crash the party.”

Alex was already attempting to visualize a club he’d never seen but more importantly, trying to work out how he wanted the night to unfold. He chose his words carefully, trying to ease the concerns of his tablemate.

“No, I won’t interfere with Baum’s business. But afterwards, I will have to get some answers from Davis, and something tells me he won’t want to cooperate. At least, not at first.”

Craftson exhaled. “You do remember who his father is?”

A knowing smile formed on Alex face. “Oh, hell. That’s an added bonus.”

Small talk ensued as the two men finished their lunch. Shortly after, Alex paid the bill and remained seated while Craftson exited into the afternoon sunshine. A few minutes later, Alex was on the phone with Duncan, requesting to be picked up at the restaurant. Alex was waiting outside when the rental car pulled up. He got in the backseat. As Duncan drove on, Nora turned in the passenger seat to engage Alex. Her whole demeanor was a question waiting for an answer.

Alex studied her near flawless face, trying to suppress memories. “You need to go shopping,” he told her. “You have to find one hell of a sexy dress.”

Nora smiled in remembrance of what was originally a stupid decision in Rome. “I don’t have to go shopping. I’m sure I have something that’ll work.”

“Resourceful, that’s always good.”

Duncan peeked at Alex in the rearview mirror. “So, I take it things went well?”

Alex sat up, reaching inside his jacket pocket. “Yeah, that reminds me.” He produced the two envelopes filled with money and handed them over to Nora.

Duncan casually took in the exchange. “So, you think you can trust him?

Alex’s eyes shifted to the passing scenery. “I believe so. As it turns out, the world is a pretty small place.”

CHAPTER
22

After dinner, like clockwork, Yosef Ezra retired to his study. He gently closed the French doors behind him and sat at his glistening mahogany desk. Waiting in a pile, as always, was the day’s mail. His devoted wife never opened his envelopes nor even paid much attention to the return addresses. Her routine was to stack it neatly in his study before going about maintaining the rest of the household, which included making a delectable meal each night they didn’t go out for dinner. And Ezra didn’t really like going out too often, because his wife was an outstanding cook. He gave in only to please her, because every now and then she enjoyed dressing up and letting someone else prepare the food. Part of the deal was also that after investing long hours at work, he wouldn’t spend too much time in his study to conduct more business. She preferred he stay at work if that was going to be the case. He went about clearing his desk efficiently, quickly shredding the junk mail, putting bills in another pile and scanning other correspondence as if he were the Emperor of Rome deciding a gladiator’s fate, issuing a hasty thumbs up or thumbs down. His pace slowed considerably when he encountered the small sealed box. He carefully picked it up and shook it. There was something loose inside. He inspected the package’s label. There was no return address. He grabbed his letter opener and sliced through the translucent tape that held the package closed. The inside was sealed with plastic wrap. He sat upright in his chair when he realized what was inside. His throat felt slightly dry. In the quietness of the room, he could hear his heart beating faster.

As if it were a precious gem, Ezra’s aging fingers gently angled the box so that its contents would slide out. He watched as a small pile of sand came to rest on his desk. A note, the size you’d find in a fortune cookie, contained the word “Go.” Ezra woke up his computer and composed two short e-mail messages that were virtually untraceable thanks to security software that utilized a network of IP addresses. The messages simply read:
Sandstorm. Green light.

He hit the send button on both e-mails and logged off. Ezra sat back in his big leather chair, eagerly looking forward to spending the rest of the evening cuddled up with his wife. There was no turning back now. Years of planning, concealing, and manipulating were about to pay off. Certainly all of it was against the law, but no one would ever know. If all went according to plan, the consequences would force the world to focus on the end result and not the hidden steps that led up to it. For certain, Israel would be a much safer place, its aggressors less tempted to take measures that could have catastrophic results.

He knew history would prove him right.

CHAPTER
23

Dmitri Nevsky was not the most patient of men, and spending idle time in Gomel, of all places, did nothing to improve his disposition. This was one job he wanted to be done with, despite its nice payday. To him, even when the sun shined brightly, this part of the world seemed sorely lacking. The landscape was boring, the housing repetitive, the cities predictable, and the people, though hardworking, lacked perspective on the rest of the world. He felt qualified to form such an opinion because he grew up in such a place. He watched his father grow old fast because he worked too hard to provide for his family, and the return on his sweat equity was never a fair exchange. Their apartment was certainly too small for a family of five. After a while, playing with his two younger sisters no longer distracted him from focusing on the family’s meager belongings. The inner workings of the street, however, were appealing to him. There he found what he was looking for. Nevsky discovered he was good at using his fists and that even bigger, older kids could be intimidated once his reputation grew around the neighborhood. That reputation eventually got the attention of the authorities, and a relationship was born.

Nevsky’s first taste of a jail cell came at age fifteen. He was a frequent visitor until he turned eighteen. That was when a new association ensued, and it came with a uniform: the military beckoned. A hungry, strapping, feared young man like him was just the type the military needed to prevent its ranks from getting soft. He eventually attained responsibility and authority, which empowered him in ways he never thought possible. It would have been easy for him to become a career soldier, but influential men saw that as a waste. No, a man like Nevsky had a higher calling. He was handpicked to receive the education he’d turned his back on during his youth, and his penchant for violence was channeled into a craft—a much easier sell, since the military had taught him a sense of discipline. Nevsky had become a prized possession of the FSB. Though it wasn’t like being a doctor, an educator, or a businessman, working for the government’s enforcement and intelligence arm was a career. And it was one that made him proud. Plus, working in foreign countries widened his scope of the world and what it had to offer. Like his father, though, he eventually felt trapped in a system that failed to compensate him sufficiently for his efforts. After taking care of an assignment in Iraq, he’d decided he was done. Besides, it was getting more and more difficult to stay true to the cause. Determining how certain actions benefited his homeland was starting to require too much thought. On occasion, it was as if he was on loan to the Iraqis, or Saudis, or some other Middle East entity. Was it about oil? Maintaining relationships? Control? In the end, for him, it was about working with or for people he didn’t like being around.

There were protests and veiled threats, but he was allowed to leave the government’s service without looking over his shoulder because he’d been smart enough to document and hide vital information that could destroy careers. To the Russian hierarchy, Nevsky was certainly more dangerous dead than alive.

Over the last couple of days in Gomel, his mealtimes consisted of trying to consume anything packaged, preferably imported. He had trust issues, having read somewhere that a number of Belarusians still consumed contaminated food, a leftover gift from Chernobyl. It was probably a lie, but it succeeded in making him cautious. All he wanted to do was wash Gomel off his hands and wave good-bye. When the call from his employer came, he was more than overjoyed to hear it was time to move the cargo one last time. The conversation was not lengthy, the instructions clear. He listened intently, jotting down notes along the way.