Sandstorm (2 page)

The next move was easy to anticipate but difficult to defend in the relatively close quarters of her living room. Nora backpedaled, her arms searching behind her while she kept the rapidly advancing man in front of her. He was within arm’s length when she grabbed a dining room chair. As his right hand zigzagged forward, searching for flesh, she brought the chair around, punishing his arm, dislodging the knife in the process. His quickness and recovery caught her by surprise. His left hand shot out and wrapped around her neck like a python, squeezing tighter and tighter. He lifted her up and shoved her against the wall. It was nearly impossible to get air into her lungs. Nora couldn’t loosen his grip, but she clenched her left hand and swung down onto the bridge of his nose as if trying to chop a tree trunk. She felt cartilage break as he quickly released his grip, trying to regain his equilibrium through watery eyes. Nora kneed him in the crotch and then used her knuckles to deal a blow that shifted his larynx. He staggered to the ground, clutching his throat. Nora went to retrieve the knife, knowing she had to hurry. Fighting through the pain, he attempted to pull out a gun, but the attached silencer’s bulk wouldn’t easily clear his jacket. Nora picked up the knife and, without thinking much about aim, let it fly. A hurried shot sailed a few inches past her head. The knife, however, found a target. All five inches of the blade sliced through the man’s left eye into brain matter. His body went limp after a few erratic jerks.

He was professional enough to not carry identification, but he had made the mistake of wearing cologne, which had given his presence away. It made her wonder if he had been out on the town when called away to go do a job. The body lying on the floor confirmed one thing for sure. She had to hurry. What if he wasn’t alone? And even if he was, he would be expected to report: when he didn’t, someone else would definitely come to see why.

She scurried from room to room in the apartment, making on-the-spot decisions about what was essential. The options were narrowed by what could conveniently fit in the small piece of luggage sprawled open on top of the bed. Several times she stepped over the dead man’s body as if it were an apartment amenity. Washer. Dryer. Corpse.

“Take the black dress!”

“No time!”

“There’s plenty of time. Take the black dress!”

“No time!”

“Take the black—”

“Damn it. Shut up!” The irritated utterance startled her, especially since the words surfaced from deep inside her head, which at the moment was running a marathon of emotions. Nora stood perfectly still until her nerves settled.

Given the circumstances, she shouldn’t have allowed herself to even entertain the frivolous thought of packing the black dress. Just taking a moment to consider it was stupid and a gross misuse of valuable time. Granted, it was a Versace that accentuated her figure in head-turning fashion. At over twelve hundred dollars, it was the single most expensive article of clothing she’d ever purchased. Still, it wasn’t worth dying over. From here on out, every move required extreme thought and caution.

Nora Mossa had to disappear.

Nora Mossa had to become someone else.

She had two fake identity kits supplied by the CIA. She’d pack them but had no intention of using either. There was a third, kept totally off the books. Hiding behind a fictitious identity wouldn’t guarantee safety, but it would buy time. And she needed time to figure this whole mess out and decide whom she could trust. Someone would have to be responsible for bringing her back in.

Erica Janway was missing, maybe for two days by now. A package had been waiting for Nora when she returned late from a date last night. It was addressed to Vivian Ward. Seeing the name had nearly made her heart skip a beat. “Vivian Ward” was Julia Roberts’s prostitute character in Nora’s favorite chick flick,
Pretty Woman
. It was also her code name designating extreme danger. She had immediately ripped the package open, revealing a series of notes and a letter addressed to her from Erica. She focused on every word. Erica was not a person prone to paranoia. She instructed Nora that if everything was okay, she’d phone her by noon Eastern Time the next day to alleviate her fears. Nora barely slept that night as she contemplated what it all meant. She wanted desperately to hear her friend’s voice. She hoped that this was just a precaution the two of them would laugh about one day while getting caught up. She had nervously stayed in her apartment, keeping a close eye on the comings and goings on the street below. By early evening, she couldn’t bear to stare at the clock any longer, so she went for a walk. No return call had come in the time allotted. In that scenario, Erica had been specific in her instructions.

Run.

Run.

Quickly!

The sound of her suitcase shutting echoed throughout the bedroom. She had been stationed in Rome for just over a year and was beginning to like the sound and feel of calling it home. Sadly, that was about to end. Satisfied that nothing essential was being left behind, she headed for the door and exited. With the key about to lock away a part of her life, she paused for reflection. She stomped her feet and hurriedly went back into the apartment. When she emerged in the hallway, slung over her arm was the black Versace dress. There were some things a woman just couldn’t do without.

CHAPTER
3

The jet’s turbulence jolted Nora awake from what was a deep, fatigue-induced sleep. Her journey from Rome had begun with good intentions and meticulous preparation. She had spent an entire day at a hotel on the outskirts of the city, perfecting her look. She was no longer a blonde with hair that fell below the shoulders. Her hair was now brunette and short, fuller at the top and cropped neatly around the ears, sloping in toward her neckline. The eyes were also different. Gone were the light green opals, replaced by vibrant blue contact lenses. Her passport matched her newly acquired French accent as well. Nora wasn’t ready to embrace where circumstances were taking her, but there was little choice. Her life was inexplicably in danger. Her friend was missing and likely dead. But why? What had Erica uncovered? Some of the answers would come from the package Erica had sent. That information would have to be sorted out, and Nora knew she couldn’t go at this alone. She needed help, and that meant turning to someone capable of handling the situation—but more importantly, someone she could trust. That list was regrettably very short. If she had followed protocol after the attempt on her life, an emergency number should have been dialed immediately. Arrangements would have been made to bring her in safely. But Erica worked for the CIA as well, and there had to be a reason why she hadn’t alerted her superiors. Nora prayed the person she had to contact would help. They hadn’t been on speaking terms for years. An association and romance had both ended badly, and each had vowed not to see or speak to the other again. Now, she felt that same man was the only person capable of helping her. How could she convince him to help when, years ago, in a similar situation, she had doubted him? This was a man who used trust and faith as huge measuring sticks. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was capable of being kind and gentle in one setting and highly lethal in the next. She once loved him dearly. If he wouldn’t help, she felt her days might be numbered.

She was traveling under the name Nathalie Tauziat, French national, born in the seaport city of Calais. She was unmarried, an only child, making a good living as a corporate headhunter, a job that often required lots of travel as the stamps on her passport indicated. Given the stress of her job, it made perfect sense to pamper herself with a vacation. Plus, the name also belonged to a former professional tennis player. If questioned, the name would pass casual inspection, drawing perhaps a polite smile from a knowing customs agent who might have remembered a moment at Roland Garros Stadium. The age and physique of this Nathalie Tauziat would end any speculation on the spot.

The flight was roughly on schedule: the landing gear touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport two hours and ten minutes after takeoff. Nora had over six hours to burn before she had to return to the airport for a flight to JFK in New York. She decided to get lost in the mix, so after storing her bag in an airport storage locker, she opted to take the suburban express train into Paris. She took the train all the way to the Cluny–La Sorbonne station. She looked particularly comfortable as she exited the station with only her purse in tow. She’d changed clothes during the flight, and the effect allowed her to blend in well with the hundreds of young women who walked around the Sorbonne University campus. She sat on a bench, pulling out a paperback novel she’d purchased before boarding her flight. From time to time she scanned the surroundings from behind dark sunglasses, relieved to discover there was nothing out of the ordinary.

*   *   *

On the flight to New York, Nora’s mind refused to shut down. She landed and found a hotel near the airport. Unable to sleep much, she studied Erica’s notes once more. It was all just a collection of names, dates, and financial documents that appeared to be a complex set of monetary transfers between foreign banks. Two words circled in the notes with a question mark stood out in the middle of one page—
Nuclear capability?
Following it was a list that read like a who’s who of National Security nightmares:
The Middle East? Iran, Pakistan, Syria, North Korea? China? CIA???
The names of individuals didn’t register with her. Two were Arabic. Others were Asian, German, Russian, and American.

Early the next morning, she boarded her flight at the last moment. Nora was sure her body was going to make her pay for all this travel, but it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps there would be a moment to rest where she was now headed.

It was both comforting and nerve-racking to hear the pilot announce that the plane was making its final descent for landing. There were a number of possible outcomes ahead. The absolute worst of all, she couldn’t bring herself to think about. It would take all her powers of persuasion to elicit help from the person she was going to see.

As the plane skidded down the runway, the flight attendant announced gleefully, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Caribbean and the beautiful island of St. Thomas. The temperature is a delightful eighty-six degrees.”

CHAPTER
4

There were times Dmitri Nevsky was convinced he was born in the wrong era. He should have been at Stalingrad in the winter of 1943, the temperature minus thirty degrees Celsius, Germany’s Sixth Army finally defeated. Deaths in the tens of thousands, a human toll for sure, but pride restored after bleeding the German army dry, a pivotal turn of World War II. He missed the Cold War as well, working not for the KGB but for its replacement, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, or FSB. It was a career, but not as meaningful as it could have been.

The challenges had become predictable. Skilled practitioners like him found themselves working for countries that often cut their balls off at the first sign of real trouble, preferring instead to seek a diplomatic alternative. It eventually made him sick, and he couldn’t stomach the weakness anymore. When the time came, he was welcomed by those who didn’t give a damn about the rules. They helped to make him financially stable, his family wanting for nothing within reason.

Nevsky’s thoughts on this dark, dreary day were extremely focused. A drum solo of rain pelted his umbrella, some of it splattering off to wet his full-length triple-XL black trench coat. He kept his other hand concealed inside one of the coat’s deep pockets, comforted by the handle of a semiautomatic pistol. As he took in the frenzied activity before him, he was glad everything was progressing smoothly. Through his years as a member of the FSB’s elite covert division, he had become a man who placed stock in preparation. Paying attention to details went a long way toward staying alive. He was living testament to that. There had been close calls in the Middle East, and a particularly harrowing moment in Bucharest where a bullet narrowly missed a major artery. Everything about this operation had been played out in his mind countless times. Trouble was, this was only the beginning.

Located approximately sixty miles from Moscow in the city of Obninsk, the Institute for Physics & Power Engineering did very little to draw attention to itself. The building’s exterior, much like the darkened sky, did not portray friendliness. There had been a time when the institute’s work and research were vital to the nation’s survival and interests. But those were brighter, more prosperous days. In the wake of the Soviet Union’s collapse, the institute and the workers who stayed were forced to adjust to a changing marketplace. The center still possessed valuable commodities high in demand, but those buyers were outside Russia’s borders. The ability to modify inventory to fill specific orders greatly changed the institute’s mission statement.

The loading dock was located in the rear of the expansive, two-story structure that over the years had taken on a faded Pepto-Bismol color. The rear of the property was enclosed with perimeter fencing, an electronic gate providing the only entryway. Nevsky’s group of men seemed oblivious to the weather as they labored on the loading dock, darting back and forth from the building to the two oversized trucks. Each trip from inside was like a carbon copy of the others. Every crate carried was the same size and weight.

The purchase order was bogus. The material packed inside the rectangular boxes being loaded wasn’t copper or other precious metals, as the purchase order stipulated. Nevsky didn’t give a damn about the inaccuracy as he watched his men move about with precision. He was thankful not to hear a sound from the Bluetooth device attached to his ear. His guards stationed on the roads two miles out in each direction had nothing to report. His orders were simple. Babysit the shipment by whatever means necessary. The journey wouldn’t conclude until the cargo was housed briefly at a trading company in Gomel and then finally handed off at a destination not even he was privy to yet. He was told the job might require more than just delivery. That worried him the least of all. His men were well trained and, perhaps most importantly, loyal.