Sandstorm (36 page)

Alex made a run for a sedan that was loading up but was too late. Its doors closed and the vehicle jetted off. Fifty yards away, he located another vehicle. From the corner of his eye he saw that others had designs on the SUV as well. Taking off in a full-blown sprint, Alex reached the vehicle before the other men, who’d had a shorter distance to travel. As he opened the driver’s side door, an arm forcefully grabbed his shoulders, trying to drag him away. Alex squatted to dislodge the hand. Still low, he pivoted and began to rise. He struck the man in several key body parts with extreme force and speed. The final blow was an open hand thrust under the man’s chin. He fell to the ground dazed and unable to respond. Seeing this, his friends backed away and ran off to find another means of escape. Thankful the keys were in the ignition, Alex put the car in gear and floored it. He was about four miles away from the compound when in the rearview mirror he saw a sea of dirt and sand rise high in the sky, as if a giant fan had been turned on.

Several miles later, he phoned Nora and instructed her to be waiting with all the necessary paperwork and credentials outside the hotel. Panic wouldn’t have reached Tehran yet, so they would have a head start before the roads jammed. When he pulled up to the hotel, Nora jumped into the front seat. All she carried was her purse and a pillowcase filled with nothing but essential items. Alex drove like an ambulance driver to exit Tehran. Nora explained that they had to head north toward Azerbaijan. She studied her phone. Sara had e-mailed a detailed map with their route well marked. Once on the highway, it was all just about speed. Alex stayed on the Tehran-Karaj Freeway for several miles, veering onto Freeway 1 toward Rasht. From there, they hugged the coastline along Road 49 en route to the border crossing at Astara. Along the way, Nora made contact with Sara again. If everything went according to plan, they’d soon be safe.

Getting everything to go according to plan was no small and inexpensive feat. The CIA had to enlist the services of a highly respected career diplomat who was an expert on the region with well-placed friends. He decided to help despite his hurt feelings. Just a few months prior, his nomination to be ambassador to Azerbaijan had been unceremoniously derailed in Congress due to opposition from Armenian-American interest groups. An easier route would have been to ask Israel to intervene, since they had a working relationship with the country, but based on the current situation, President Hudson thought it was an unwise request to make. Not knowing who was a part of this sordid mess, he felt it best to keep the Israelis in the dark on what they already knew.

Arrangements and payments went down to the wire, but when Alex and Nora joined the line at the border crossing, a couple of Iranian policemen took particular interest in their vehicle. They approached and demanded to see identification. Satisfied with visual confirmation, the guards stepped back and ordered Alex and Nora to exit, instructing them to leave the keys in the ignition. Alex didn’t know what to make of it, but he felt their luck had possibly run out. They were marched toward the border crossing.

Alex formed a big smile when he saw Duncan and Sara waiting on the other side. Sara gave the guard standing next to her a nod, and he in turn did the same to his counterpart on the Iranian side of Astara. A few minutes later, Alex and Nora crossed the border.

“You crazy, amazing son of a bitch,” Duncan remarked as he gave Alex a huge bear hug.

CHAPTER
75

Al Jazeera news network was the first to report it. The news was met with some skepticism, but the entire Arab world took note, especially Iran’s nearest neighbors. Shortly after, CNN got wind of the story, making it accessible to the world. Other cable news outlets followed suit. About three hours after video aired of President Shahroudi proudly proclaiming Iran had joined the ranks of countries with nuclear power came word of a major catastrophe. One announcer uttered the words that drew people closer to their televisions and radios: “Nuclear disaster.”

The Iraqi government responded by taking air samples. So far everything was all clear, and the wind, thank Allah, was blowing away from its borders. Turkmenistan also monitored the situation with uneasiness, putting the country’s health care system on alert. The prevailing winds were blowing in a southeasterly direction. That set off a panic in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Word of mouth was spreading among border colonies, and people and possessions were left behind as a mad exodus inland began. Government officials tried to inform the escaping masses that test results were yielding no cause for concern. Having endured years of being lied to by various governments, they marched on.

There was no official confirmation or denial from Iran, but the story was sensitive enough to warrant talk of an immediate meeting by the League of Arab States.

In the United States, various governmental agencies were up to speed on what happened long before any news report. Satellites that routinely monitored the comings and goings at the Natanz facility yielded pictures of a complex that was there one minute and virtually swallowed by a giant sinkhole the next. Since it was early morning in Washington, the right people were already up, prepping for the day when they got the call. Al Jazeera was reporting hundreds of casualties as the first shaky pieces of mobile phone video were broadcast. The images weren’t specific but they did convey panic, showing mostly workers scrambling to escape the area.

There was much speculation in the Arab world that the West had masterminded the incident in response to Shahroudi’s bravado, backing up their promise that Iran would not be allowed to become a nuclear state. But calmer, more rational analysts conveyed the fact that such a strike so quickly after Shahroudi’s announcement was implausible. That there were no reports of military planes or missiles crossing the necessary borders to carry out such a response gave weight to their observations. The United States immediately offered assistance through the Iranian embassy and NATO after attempts to reach President Shahroudi directly were unsuccessful. Most of the European Union duplicated the gesture, only to be rebuffed.

Yosef Ezra watched the events unfold at work with colleagues. One would have been hard-pressed to find sadness in the room of Mossad employees. From their point of view, an unnerving threat was now off the books. Plus, there was no doubt Iran would now have less money to funnel to hostile groups like Hamas. The cost in human life was tragic, but the Iranians had brought this upon themselves.

As more details slowly filtered in through news reports and assets in the region, it was clear something had not gone according to plan. There was no evidence of a radiation leak of any kind. If those reactors had malfunctioned like they were supposed to have, there would be condemnation from all over the globe for Iran’s miscalculated steps. Its surrounding neighbors would be at the brink of war if radiation encroached upon their borders. Afghani chieftains alone would be up in arms if their precious poppy fields were contaminated for years to come.

There was one other uncertainty that kept Ezra relatively quiet. What was the status of Nathan Yadin? If the reactors’ cores hadn’t been breached, it was conceivable Yadin was responsible. Ezra had never encountered a more dangerous man. Yadin was more than a walking, thinking, killing machine. He had a high IQ to supplement his deadly skill. Judging from the images, it was entirely possible Natanz’s collapse was now Yadin’s tomb. Surely he wouldn’t have had enough time to prevent the reactors from leaking and then escape. Ezra rubbed his weary eyes. Yadin was capable of the impossible. He’d seen that over the years. For that reason alone, he had built in an insurance plan on Yadin’s planned escape route. All the ambush team had needed for success was the slightest indecision on Yadin’s part. Ezra wouldn’t be at ease until he knew for sure, but if Yadin was buried beneath tons of sand and metal, only time would ease his fears.

*   *   *

Several hours had passed since the first report, and the rest of the world showed its resiliency or lack of concern by adhering to daily routines as if nothing happened. The night pulse of Brussels was just beginning to thump. Restaurants and bars were jammed with patrons, their noise indicating life was meant to be enjoyed. The navy sedan with tinted windows cautiously moved along, just another clog in the chaotic driving conditions of Brussels. There were five occupants in the car, four of whom could see clearly: the driver, the man in the front passenger seat, and the two men sitting in the back, bookending Davis Lipton, who sat blindfolded in the middle. The man on his left made him extremely nervous as he bounced to the music blasting from the car’s speakers, all the while pressing a silenced weapon against his stomach. They’d been traveling for nearly thirty minutes, mostly due to the traffic, but also because they were scouting for the right location. Without warning, the car came to an abrupt stop and the rear doors opened just as quickly. A firm hand pulled Lipton by the shirt while the man on his left supplied a push in the back as he was led out of the car. They turned him around and forced him to sit down on what felt like a bench. He was instructed not to move, which was fine with him since his bandaged foot still ached from being shot. He heard their footfalls as they hurried away, and then a car accelerating quickly, horns blasting in protest. Lipton sat there for a good five minutes, listening to the night noise of cars zooming by and people engaged in conversation. He also heard a few giggles as foot traffic crossed in front of him. Taking a chance, he removed his blindfold, grateful he was still alive, his captors nowhere in sight. He had to find a phone so he could call his father and warn him.

CHAPTER
76

Home was about seventeen hours away, and Alex was determined to make it there today. He desperately needed to feel the comfort and familiarity of sand beneath his feet and the sound of the ocean.

For the last couple of days he’d done little besides recuperating mentally and physically. Being close to death several times tended to zap one’s energy.

He debated getting another cup of coffee. It would be at least another forty-five minutes before his flight began boarding. Airports were the worst. The only thing that made his wait tolerable was spending it in the British Airways First lounge, away from the jammed terminal traffic. This little perk and the first-class ticket home were courtesy of the CIA. Alex sat isolated, purposely situated away from any television set. The news of Iran’s nuclear facility “mishap” still garnered plenty of media attention, but he had no interest. The Natanz facility had nearly become his final resting place. He loved sand, but not to that degree.

From Azerbaijan, Alex, Nora, Duncan, and Sara had been transported by private plane to RAF Croughton base outside of London. Alex spent nearly an entire day being debriefed by the CIA chief of station and other experts on what he’d seen and encountered.

Upon being excused, he’d made sure the CIA was covering the tab for a suite at one of London’s finest hotels and for his first-class return trip home. George Champion had arranged for him to have carte blanche to make whatever travel and accommodation arrangements he pleased. Alex took Duncan and Nora out for dinner, sparing no expense. Alex had extended his gratitude to Duncan for being such a good friend: he, too, got a first-class ticket home. Sensing that Nora and Alex had unfinished business to address, Duncan had said his good-byes, receiving a heartfelt hug and kiss from Nora.

Alex and Nora had grown quiet as they nursed another bottle of wine. She had searched her heart and began to explain that words were not enough, but Alex had cut her off, telling her it wasn’t necessary. He asked if she wanted closure. She didn’t quite understand: the whole operation was over, wasn’t it?

“Not exactly,” he had told her, wondering if she truly possessed the hunger to see it through to the end.

Her response had been firm. “Let me have it.”

It was a detail he’d refrained from telling the CIA. “The man you want is named Roger Daniels.”

Nora had consumed the revelation as they’d finished the last bottle of wine. The emotion fueled by a last dinner together led to their spending the night and experiencing one another quite possibly for the last time. There had been no promises made the following morning as they went their separate ways.

When Alex heard his plane’s boarding announcement, he made his way to the specified gate. Situated in his first-class seat he smiled, thinking of the one last good deed he’d performed. Because they’d both invested with his money managing company before, Alex had Nora and Duncan’s banking information. They deserved to enjoy the $700,000 windfall deposited into each of their accounts, courtesy of the Iranian government.

CHAPTER
77

A bullet in the head from a long-range rifle was too easy and impersonal. Nora had decided her target deserved to suffer, and it needed to be personal. Roger Daniels’s unlimited access to luxury made things problematic. He didn’t fly commercial or wait in line for a dinner table. Stores stayed open for him after closing to the general public. Nora had spent more than a month chasing him around the globe, observing his habits. She concluded his love of the sea and younger women would be his downfall.

Nora had discovered that during his Caribbean jaunts, Daniels would give the majority of his crew a night off, leaving just a skeleton staff of two people. He didn’t do it out of kindness or appreciation. Instead, the situation allowed him to put on a show, often having sex at night, on the open deck of the
Cuda
, the young woman’s forced moans of passion drifting out to sea as if the ocean would be impressed with her lover’s prowess.

On this night, Daniels’s yacht was positioned about a mile and a half offshore. Nora was anchored just under a mile away, watching in the darkness from the twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser she’d rented. When the time came, she would have to be ready. The slightest hesitation could put her in jeopardy. To prepare, she’d slept as long as she could during the day, not wanting to chance being lulled into a nap by the rhythmic sway of the ocean or the calmness of the night. Once darkness fell, she slipped into a diving suit, checked the oxygen tank for a third time, and set it down next to her for easy access. She sat low in the boat, peering over its side from time to time with night-vision binoculars.