Sandstorm

by Alan L. Lee

  “Sounds harmless enough. I’ve never been to Iran, so this will be a first. I’ll tell my girlfriend I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  “That won’t be necessary. She’ll be coming with us.”

  CHAPTER 59

  So far he wasn’t dead, and that was a good thing. It was still early in the day, though.

  The caravan of cars and SUVs totaled six, and they were moving at a good clip along the desert highway, heading southwest of Tehran. Civilization had vanished behind them. Alex noted that this stretch of road was devoid of pedestrian traffic. The vehicles passing in the opposite direction appeared to be of an official nature or military. He tried to put on a good front, but this was a bit discomforting. He had been away from this life for too long a stretch. His instincts weren’t what they should have been, because if he’d been thinking clearly, he wouldn’t be in the backseat of a Range Rover tearing through the Iranian desert to destination unknown. He’d committed the cardinal sin of allowing his emotions to guide him. Seeing Dmitri Nevsky alive had sent his world spinning off its axis, and there was only one way to get it back on track.

  He couldn’t stomach the image of Nora being hauled away and tortured. That would be her fate if his background didn’t check out, and he was sure the Iranians were checking every facet of their backgrounds, as quickly as they could. With each passing mile, he felt better. His cover was holding. All he needed, though, was some overworked CIA employee forgetting to cross a t or dot an i. A deep inquiry by someone who knew what they were doing would eventually uncover inconsistencies. Thus it became a dangerous game of filling in holes faster than someone on the other end of a computer could dig.

  Alex was weary, his brain and body feeling the effects of being tossed into what felt like a relentless storm. He and Nora were in the air on a private jet less than two hours after the Iranians had come knocking. As she’d put on clothes, Nora did her best to keep Sara informed, texting her about what was going on. Sara in turn had alerted Langley and made sure Duncan was ready to move. If Alex and Nora needed extraction, the options were scarce. With US forces out of Iraq, a border crossing there at this point was too risky. Sara decided the best and shortest option was to the north. Azerbaijan had no love for its neighbor to the south. Langley agreed with her assessment, and soon after, she and Duncan headed to the airport to catch a flight to Baku.

  Nora hadn’t liked it, but she had to leave the 9 mm behind. Not having it made her feel a little underdressed, but if they searched or x-rayed her bag, a gun would be hard to explain, and they already had enough credibility issues. During the short plane ride, the smaller Iranian had engaged Alex in small talk, a veiled attempt to acquire subtle facts that could be traced. In between chats, the Iranian would excuse himself to use the plane’s phone, no doubt relaying tidbits about Mr. McBride while trying to explain why they were bringing a different man from the one they were supposed to pick up.

  Upon touching down in Tehran, there had been no fanfare or lingering as they were transferred from the plane to a waiting car. They had been checked into the fashionable Espinas International Hotel on the outskirts of the city. Their king-sized suite afforded clear views of Milad Tower, which according to the bellhop was the tallest tower in Tehran and sixth tallest in the world. In the distance was Mount Damavand, its snow-capped peak the highest point in the Middle East. Mr. McBride had been instructed to be out front, ready for pickup at eight in the morning. The woman would have to stay behind.

  The next morning, Alex had been prompt to meet his Iranian handler, whom he only knew as Farid. Another person, who appeared to be of African descent, was already in the backseat of the Range Rover. The man had merely nodded when he and Alex made eye contact.

  They had been traveling for miles when finally something besides the desert came into view. Initially, it looked like a series of giant candles. As the caravan got closer, Alex could see that several vehicles were already on the scene, haphazardly parked quite a distance from the candlelike devices. There was also a healthy allotment of Iran’s elite Revolutionary Guard soldiers, heavily armed. The military presence was partly explained moments later, when they passed a series of vehicles adorned with the official flags of Iran. It was clearly the president’s detail. Alex was looking out each side of the vehicle, taking in the magnitude of the situation. There were people lined up several yards off the road, and two steel bleachers, looking totally out of place, were filling up with bodies. The real shocker came as the SUV came to a stop. There was no mistaking the candlelike devices now.

  Spaced about thirty yards apart were a series of ten missiles, standing at attention, ready to be launched.

  CHAPTER 60

  The luxury yacht was impressive but not overly ostentatious—at least, not when compared to some of the other vessels anchored off the Turks and Caicos Islands. Besides, Roger Daniels’s real showcase was docked in the Mediterranean. This wasn’t the crowd he needed to impress, so the multimillion dollar yacht labeled Cuda was more about pleasure than business.

  For all he’d done in his life, good or misunderstood, Daniels found it strange that he was struggling to sleep. He continued to nurse the three fingers of premium Scotch, hoping it would have a soothing effect. The water around him was quiet, and his yacht was far enough offshore that he only faintly heard the night cacophony of Nikki Beach activity as it drifted out to sea. There were plenty of lights still aglow at the resort and surrounding area, the young and wealthy extending the night. This was supposed to be the R and R he needed to wait out the world’s reaction to what was going to soon dominate the headlines. After his Kennedy Center event, he’d boarded his private jet bound for Turks and Caicos. Shortly after touchdown, he had been transported to his yacht, every one of his creature comforts well stocked, one of which was the young, curvaceous woman on his payroll. For the pleasure she provided, the small expenditure was a bargain.

  Upsetting the balance of another country wasn’t what bothered Daniels. Nor was it the loss of life. That was sometimes the cost of doing business. Those who weren’t in a position to alter the world’s path didn’t understand that. Having immense wealth and power was akin to being a god. Important decisions constantly had to be made, and as a result, for some, suffering was inevitable.

  No, what kept Daniels awake as he sat on the main deck of his 185-foot yacht, whose abbreviated name was derived from a dangerous saltwater predator, was the potential weakness of the people he was forced to associate with on this venture. The risk of exposure was there, and if his involvement ever came to light, it would cost him billions and sabotage important business relationships. He’d lose leverage, and Roger Daniels had long forgotten what it was like to not have influence.

  He had no worries about Ezra, despite the man’s patriotic motivation. Ezra was a soldier in a winless war, but you couldn’t convince him of that. What he ultimately wanted to accomplish, a civilized world wouldn’t tolerate. Not again. Daniels was sure even Ezra understood that, so he’d settle for his enemy on its knees. Daniels admired his saber-wielding conviction.

  Bryce Lipton, on the other hand, concerned him, and that feeling was deepening. So far he’d been controllable, but Daniels had seen men succumb to the trappings of power before. Lipton wasn’t a stupid man by any measure, but he was also one who’d never been able to rise above the inside-the-Beltway ceiling, so his ultimate desire of becoming president had been an unobtainable dream, until Daniels stepped in and took interest. Now Lipton was thinking the impossible was within reach. Daniels had himself to blame for that. He’d been the puppeteer, giving Lipton a reason to believe. The truth was that if the American public continued to have faith in the current president, he’d occupy the office for two terms. But if by chance there was an opening and Lipton was put in position, Daniels could foresee the day when the dog turned on its master. The problem was, Daniels actually liked Lipton. Daniels was not, however, fond of Lipton’s underachieving son, and that was the man’s weakness. His son�
�s work in Moscow should have ended his participation in their operation, but Lipton had insisted on the young man being involved further. The more the son participated, the more he knew, and Davis Lipton was a weak link. The elder Lipton at least had been adamant about insulating his son, keeping him out of the loop regarding the endgame and the major participants involved. It was a nice gesture, but Daniels wrestled with whether he could risk his empire on such paternal instincts.

  He’d decided he couldn’t. Daniels dialed a number on his satellite phone, and on the other end, Yosef Ezra answered.

  “Hello, my friend,” Daniels said, his heart no longer heavy now that his mind was made up.

  “Hello. The hour is near. Our investment looks solid.”

  “That’s good to hear. But I’m concerned about our family of shareholders. I think we need to buy them out.”

  There was silence for a moment. “This is a related matter?”

  “Yes, and I know the timing is bad, but is it feasible?”

  “One should be easy, but at this date, a buyout of the other could be difficult to dismiss as coincidence.”

  “I understand. Do what you can, but out of necessity, the larger shareholder must be taken care of first.”

  “I’ll get my staff to work on it.”

  “Excellent.”

  The conversation concluded, Daniels drained the remaining Scotch. He didn’t give much thought to what he’d just put into motion. It was something that had to be done. The country could afford to lose a senator.

  A soft pair of arms reached around his neck, and then he felt the touch of firm nipples pressing into his back. Her perfume radiated in the night air as she kissed his cheek. Daniels only saw the woman a few times a year and had no illusions about her being solely devoted to him. But she knew that whenever he requested her presence, nothing else mattered. She was along for the ride, knowing all too well it would end abruptly one day. So far, though, the arrangement had gotten her a pricy condo, a large walk-in closet of designer clothes, and enough money so that she didn’t have to punch a time clock. She just had to stay in shape and be at Daniel’s beck and call.

  “Roger,” she whispered, one hand exploring the area below his waist. “Come to bed. Let me help ease what’s troubling you.”

  He thanked the miracles of modern medicine. To think a little pill could aid him in pleasing a woman like this. He gently kissed a breast. Making love to her would be the perfect way to end the night, and afterward, he was sure he’d be able to fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 61

  Looking out among the vast desert, Yadin saw nothing that impressed him. He appeared to be alone in his opinion. His lack of enthusiasm was easy enough to explain: he was supposed to be a dedicated German scientist. A man born with the serious gene stuck up his ass. Outward displays of emotion were not generally his forte. That, at least, he did have in common with Dr. Franz Mueller.

  The nearly one hundred people around him were filled with anticipation, whether it was real or required behavior was difficult to separate. They appeared to hang onto every word President Akbar Shahroudi spat out, his speech full of passion, peppered with the right amount of venom. Even though he was a small man, his persona was on stilts. There was a hint of instability, which in this part of the world forced outsiders to tread lightly. Yadin had heard the rhetoric most of his life. “We cannot let the evil West trample our way of life, dictate their policies to us. They are afraid of the true path of Islam, because they have no souls themselves. We will wipe Israel off the face of the earth.” It went on like that for roughly fifteen minutes before Shahroudi finally was ready to reveal what bolstered his confidence. He was truly a ringmaster performing before a circus crowd.

  “Today, we send a message to the world that we will not be bullied. And this is only the beginning.” The president left the podium and returned to his seat. Yadin wondered if half the audience expected the sky to turn dark with the snap of a finger. There were television cameras present to document the event that would certainly be played on the various American cable networks and subsequently around the world as soon as possible.

  Everyone in attendance had been given a pamphlet explaining in detail what they were looking at. Yadin didn’t bother to open his. He already knew that situated on individual platforms were six Shahab-3D medium-range missiles. They represented Iran’s latest foray into striking targets outside its borders: they had an estimated range of thirteen hundred miles and were easily capable of reaching Israel. The guidance system, warhead, and missile body were all improved. A new reentry system allowed for better precision. Another advantage of the Shahab-3D was its short launch-to-impact time ratio, which enabled the guidance to remain relatively accurate over a long flight until impact. There was no question these missiles would be a test for Israel’s Arrow 2 ABM defense system. The other four missiles were intermediate-range ballistic devices from North Korea. With an estimated range of three thousand miles, they were both costlier and deadlier. If his calculations were right, Yadin figured London was just over 2,700 miles from Tehran. The European Union would indeed lose a little sleep over that. Even though the attendees were a safe distance away, each was given a set of earplugs. They were instructed to use them now. A minute later, the show began, as one of the Shahab-3D missiles slowly lifted from its perch and jettisoned into the sky until it disappeared.

  The president had a constant sardonic grin on his face, confident the world would take Iran seriously after seeing this exercise of bravado and power.

  But, as Yadin knew, this was merely the tip of the iceberg.

  CHAPTER 62

  Alex and Nora watched the local television stations’ reports of what took place in the desert. Because it was broadcast in English around the clock, they were drawn to state-run Press TV. The female anchor, dressed in traditional Muslim attire, was reporting what a glorious day it was for the country, another step forward in maintaining security, keeping the borders safe from aggressors.

  There were no differing viewpoints from foreign representatives, so Alex could only imagine what the response must have been to today’s aerial show. He was sure that in well-secured rooms across the globe, analysts with access to costly toys were dissecting every frame of today’s launches. The pamphlets that had been handed out indicated a maximum range of three thousand miles. Governments would be working feverishly to determine how many missiles with that capability the Iranians likely possessed, and where the hell they’d gotten them. The Shahab-3D wouldn’t be that much of a surprise, but the IRBMs were enough to make most of Europe restless.

  Apparently, this wasn’t the worst of it, either. During the ride back to the hotel, Farid told Alex to be ready tomorrow at exactly the same time and that his expertise might be called upon as well. Relative silence followed, until Alex broached a subject with Farid. He reminded Farid about the proceedings at the airfield and told him how impressed he’d been with the Russian named Nevsky. He asked Farid whether Nevsky would be in attendance. The answer had been no. Alex explained that it might be beneficial to him and his other clients to do business with the Russian and therefore, was there a way to contact him? Farid didn’t offer much other than to say he worked for a large firm operating out of Moscow. It was enough of a starting point. More than likely, “large firm” meant organized crime syndicate. Alex stopped inquiring when Farid said that Mr. Green should know how to contact the Russian.

  Nora was getting bored with the coverage, especially after being cooped up in the hotel for several hours. The highlight of her day was a stroll around Laleh Park in the center of the city. It afforded her the opportunity to tour the adjacent National Rug Gallery and the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. Of course, she’d been followed. The rest of her free time she spent getting a bite to eat and then working off a portion of her frustration at the hotel’s gym. The diversions had momentarily served their purpose of taking her mind off Alex. The uncertainty of what he was experiencing nearly drove her crazy. When he ret
urned, they talked about as much of his day as he felt comfortable relaying over dinner at the hotel’s French cuisine restaurant. Now, back in the room, she could tell Alex was troubled.

  “What’s on your mind? If you’re going to see this ordeal through, you have to be at your best, so what is it?”

  Alex took a deep sigh. “It’s Dmitri Nevsky. He was at the airfield the other night.”

  “Nevsky? Oh, my god!” Nora’s eyes expanded with astonishment. She knew the savagery associated with the name.

  Alex had a faraway look on his face. “Stood right in front of him. We even had a conversation. He didn’t seem to remember me. Guess it was a long time ago. Otherwise, I would have been killed on the spot. I should give him a little credit, though.”

  “For what?”

  “He did try to kill me later.”

  She now understood what was motivating him to go forward. Dmitri Nevsky represented a turning point in his life. Granted, everything that transpired was done under the guise of war, but Nevsky took pride in spreading fear among Iraqis who dared to dream that America cared enough to change their lives. It went beyond politics for Alex. She recalled from late night conversations how his frustration and anger had risen daily. Politicians on the Hill told him to stand down, that a greater good was being served. They didn’t have to hear the pain in his voice and e-mails as the bodies of those who trusted him began to pile up. Regrettably, once she joined the list of doubters, he had become a lost soul and loose cannon. Of course, he’d been right about who was betraying their interests. To those on the front lines, his course of action was more than justified. What Alex never knew in ending their relationship was how hard in the aftermath she had been on herself. If it hadn’t been for Erica’s counsel, she might not have recovered sufficiently to have a career.