Sandstorm (33 page)

Shahroudi held out his arms. “Ah, Iran’s good friend, Dr. Mueller.” He was literally beaming now. “Your handiwork,” he indicated with a wave.

“You are satisfied then?” said Dr. Mueller, stepping forward.

“In our wildest dreams, not even we could have expected all of this so soon.”

“The centrifuges meet your approval? You paid a hefty price for them.”

“Yes, Mr. McBride was just extolling the virtues of the IR-3s.”

“Mr. McBride?” Dr. Mueller raised an eyebrow.

“But of course, you two don’t know each other.”

President Shahroudi motioned for his latest acquaintance to come closer. Alex tried to stay calm while his insides churned. He had just given the performance of a lifetime, thanks to Duncan’s tutelage. He didn’t know a damn thing about how anything else in this place worked, so the slightest probing from here on in would expose his lack of knowledge.

The president gently grabbed Dr. Mueller by the elbow. “Dr. Franz Mueller, this is Wayne McBride.”

Alex could tell the good doctor was doing more than just shaking his hand.

“So, you are the man who inspected the IR-3s in Tbilisi?”

“Yes,” Alex said, raising a hand to protest. “Well, there was my associate too, Mr. Green. I’m actually crashing the party. He was supposed to make this trip, but a family emergency called him away.”

The explanation was plausible, Yadin thought. Perhaps Mr. Green had made a hasty, unexpected exit before he could be dealt with. An associate may have been kept out of the limelight, brought into play only as a last resort. In just a short while, it wouldn’t matter anyway. The one thing that kept Yadin’s interest, though, was Mr. McBride’s physical makeup. His lab coat fit him snugly. From Yadin’s various travels and interactions, men in Mr. McBride’s line of work were rarely put together so well.

President Shahroudi once again aligned himself with Dr. Mueller. “If all is in working order, I think it is time, doctor, to let the world know we have arrived.”

CHAPTER
67

True power in Washington is measured by the ability to get a table at one of the District’s finer restaurants on a busy night with little or no wait.

A senator of Bryce Lipton’s caliber had achieved centerpiece status, thus there was no such thing as a private meal unless he specifically requested the use of a VIP room. But where was the fun in that? The food always tasted that much better knowing others were in awe of his presence. Tony Engler, Lipton’s chief of staff, sat next to his boss, calculating the chances of making an early exit to begin some semblance of a weekend. Across from them was an old ally from North Carolina, Senator Daniel Wakeman.

The trio occupied a table near the rear of The Prime Rib restaurant. The location offered indirect concealment, affording Lipton the luxury of knowing who was in the restaurant before they spotted him. He relished seeing the sheepish look that would engulf his fellow politicians when they realized he was present. Most came over to pay their respects, while others, those that were truly intimidated, settled for a wave or nod of the head. And then there were the civilians, the normal people. They were the ones who had to make reservations or wait over an hour for a table.

To the experienced men and women of the Hill, it was obvious that a number of up-and-coming politicians were being wined and dined by lobbyists. Lipton chuckled. He’d been there himself a long time ago. He continued to scan the room. There were voluptuous, beautiful women dotting the restaurant at every turn. Eye candy wasn’t on the menu, but if you had something of substance to offer, you could certainly order it.

Lipton loved this place. It always generated the right kind of pulse, and the food was worth the expensive price tag. The menu decision was never easy. The crab cakes were a favorite, but he had a taste for meat this evening, so he settled on the house specialty of prime rib. His wife and doctor would not approve, which was why he had no intention of telling either, he thought to himself as he drained a glass of Scotch. He didn’t have to get the waiter’s attention for another round. It would be refilled soon enough. The service was naturally good, but for his table, it was impeccable.

Lipton began by attacking his prime rib. The portion was so huge it could feed a Third World family. The egregious thing was, not only was there no way he would finish it all, he would forgo a doggie bag, because taking it home was out of the question. He ran every aspect of his life except for one. Since he’d suffered a mild heart attack several years ago, his wife was now CEO of his health, and she ran a tight ship. If Elaine knew he was drowning in buttered mashed potatoes along with a Texas-sized piece of meat, she would lose her mind. She’d force him to walk several miles and impose a week of nothing but fruit and salads, sans the dressing. If she asked when he got home what he ate for dinner, he could stretch the truth by saying grilled asparagus, which at the moment lay untouched next to his prime rib. Without asking, he reached his fork over to stab a bite of salad from his staffer. Yes, he’d feel comfortable in telling Elaine he had artichokes and a salad for dinner.

The senator from North Carolina dined on the jumbo crab cakes while Lipton’s aide tried to keep it simple, adding to his salad only a cup of lobster bisque. His intention was to finish as quickly as possible so he could join his girlfriend, who was waiting for him with friends at a Georgetown bar.

Between bites, the senators discussed innocuous political matters that on any other day might have been remotely interesting, but tonight Engler could barely stomach the banter. Finished with his meal, he could feel his phone buzzing inside his jacket pocket. He assumed it was his girlfriend, agitated by now, wondering how much longer he was going to be. He was annoyed upon discovering the text message was from a fellow congressman’s aide. He wasn’t going to respond until the message indicated the aide was also at The Prime Rib. Engler looked up, searching. He found the beaming wannabe at the bar. From the text, he wasn’t surprised to learn a favor was needed. There was a well-endowed, stunning blonde at the aide’s side. She was definitely a step up from the regular stable of bimbos he managed to impress and bed. The text indicated the blonde was a big fan of Lipton’s and could she meet him?

Engler was about to reply with a resounding “no way” when he had a moment of clarity. This might very well be the distraction that could spring him from captivity. He returned the text, saying it was okay to bring her over. After doing so, he leaned over to inform Lipton what was about to take place. The senator had a perplexed look on his face until he took in the physique heading his way. His pupils got large, and he smiled enthusiastically when he and the woman made eye contact.

Sensing he was missing out on something, Senator Wakeman turned around to see what the attraction was. Taking his cue from the others, Senator Wakeman rose to his feet. Only Engler addressed the man who emerged from behind the woman. He stuck out a hand for Engler to shake, and his expression said, “Thank you.”

“Tony, good to see you,” the aide offered, his eyes darting back and forth between the two senior members of Congress.

Engler then took the initiative. “Senator Lipton … Senator Wakeman, this is Don Emerson. He’s Senator Dublin’s chief of staff.” Both men gave him an obligatory nod. They forgot his name pretty much as soon as they heard it. The woman displayed a degree of bashfulness to accompany the openness of her blouse. Two buttons left unfastened was all it took to reveal the trace of a black lace bra and a cleavage sculpted to perfection by skilled surgical hands. Close up, her face was average, framed by thick blonde hair. Thanks to high heels, she stood just as tall as Senator Lipton.

Trying to gain a little leverage, Emerson gently nudged the woman to Lipton’s side. “Senator, allow me to introduce Monica Freemont. You two have something in common.”

Lipton was intrigued. “I can’t imagine what that would be.” The comment drew smiles from the small gathering.

The blonde flashed her teeth and arched her back just enough to brush against Lipton. “Senator, this is a pleasure. I’m so honored to meet you. I’m from Missouri as well.”

“Ah, one of my constituents,” Lipton replied. “Miss Freemont, what part of the state are you from?”

“Chesterfield. Born and raised. Oh, my God, my mom is never going to believe I’ve met you.”

“Well, in that case,” said Emerson, who desperately wanted to get into Miss Freemont’s pants, “let’s preserve the moment with a picture. That is, if you don’t mind, Senator?” He produced an iPhone while he waited for an answer. Miss Freemont caressed Senator Lipton’s arm.

“Senator, it would mean so much to me,” she pleaded.

Lipton smiled, feeling youthful. He could remember the days when he chased down many a Miss Freemont. “Well, hell. Let’s take a picture. My wife should know she’d better hold onto me.”

Miss Freemont’s left breast had nowhere to go but against the senator’s side as they wrapped their arms around each other to get a tight shot. The aide was focusing the phone’s camera when Miss Fremont protested. “Hold on.” She separated herself to grab the drink from Lipton’s hand. “Why don’t you let me hold this? Don’t want to give these Beltway Democrats any ammunition.”

The senator laughed. “Thank you, my dear. We Missourians have to look out for each other.”

Once again, Emerson raised the camera, and a couple of seconds later, the bright flash forced everyone to blink. That was all the time and misdirection Miss Freemont needed to drop a pill into the senator’s Scotch. It dissolved quickly and went unnoticed.

Engler decided to go for his exit strategy. He reached for the iPhone and told Emerson to squeeze in so he could take a picture of him with the senators and the blonde he had no business being with. Engler took two pictures and then apologized for cutting the evening short. Senator Lipton was too engaged to be upset, so he bid his chief of staff goodnight. Engler got his counterpart’s attention, cocking his head to let him know the ledger was now very much in his favor.

Miss Freemont continued to charm Senator Lipton, aware that her companion was breathing down her neck. She had two options to consider. One was to get the phone from Emerson while in public, delete the pictures and dump the loser. If that proved difficult, she’d probably have to go to his place and get him all worked up while finding the right moment to erase the pictures. She’d then make an excuse to leave before losing all her dignity. She took a long, hard look at him one more time.

It was definitely option one.

CHAPTER
68

His orders were to ensure President Shahroudi’s safety. Yadin understood why, but it was difficult to accept. In all the confusion that would arise, it would be no problem at all to kill Shahroudi. But he had to see to it that the president escaped. He hoped the man was foolish enough to stay.

The control room was packed. Technicians stood or sat ready at their various positions of responsibility. There was a camera crew jockeying for room, their lens trained on the president, recording the moment for posterity. The day Iran changed its fate and standing in the world.

Yadin stood behind several people in the back of the room, close to the exit, avoiding the camera crew. Even though they had explicit orders not to capture Dr. Mueller on tape, he wasn’t taking any chances. He glanced through the narrow window of the control room door, out into the hallway. He caught a glimpse of Mr. McBride. McBride’s presence left him with an unpleasant feeling. He’d made it this far in a very dangerous line of work by listening to his gut. He learned long ago to leave nothing to chance. For the next five minutes, the room was silent as President Shahroudi gave another speech, this one carried all over the facility via its audio system. He thanked all those who helped bring about this day and promised their contributions would be remembered for generations.

Upon conclusion, his speech received thunderous applause, and he basked in the adulation. The president’s eyes seemed to glaze over, as if he was imagining how history would portray him. He gathered himself and strode over to a control panel. A technician rose to give the president access. Shahroudi stared at the two keys locked into place, absorbing their significance.

Yadin improved his position in order to see. Shahroudi reached out with his right hand and turned one of the keys clockwise. Before his hand was completely off the key, the facility began to take on new life, generating more noise. Shahroudi looked up in acknowledgment and then promptly turned the other key. Once again, the facility hummed. To the technicians, it was like a symphony. There was plenty of enthusiasm around the large window overlooking the reactors. With no one paying him the slightest attention, Yadin begin working the mechanisms on his watch. He didn’t need to look down, having practiced these maneuvers hundreds of times on a replica watch. He was finished in less than thirty seconds.

While most spectators in the room were still nodding their heads and congratulating each other, Dr. Mueller grabbed a nearby clipboard and joined a group of technicians along one panel of instruments. He made notes of the readings, satisfied that everything was as it should be.

For seven minutes and counting, Iran had become part of an exclusive club. The country now had functional, weapons-grade nuclear reactors in operation. Dr. Mueller continued to make rounds, checking in at various stations. He kept a nonchalant eye on Shahroudi as he did so.

Fifteen minutes in, it happened.

All conversation in the control room came to a concerned halt. Everyone felt a nerve-rattling jolt as the cavernous structure reacted as if it had taken a blow to the midsection.

CHAPTER
69

The bedside clock read 1:37 in the morning, and Bryce Lipton didn’t know if it was guilt or heartburn that had awakened him. In either case, he knew his meal choice had been foolish. Washing down the prime rib and mashed potatoes with several glasses of Scotch had only added fuel to the fire.