Sandstorm (37 page)

Then she waited.

The bulk of the crew left for shore presunset on several dinghies. One crewmember returned a short time later, piloting the dinghy with a shapely blonde in a V-neck sundress on board, the wind tossing her hair. Daniels was waiting and helped her board. There were now only two crewmembers on board. Nora meditated as the couple had drinks and dinner. She maintained calm through extensive foreplay and tried to concentrate on the task ahead while the pair engaged in their unabashed sexual exploits. All was quiet for over an hour with no movement on the boat. It was just the moon, the waves, and anticipation. Nora’s interest piqued when a faint light on the deck was eclipsed. She grabbed the binoculars and saw the woman standing alone, adjusting her dress. Shortly after, she was joined by the crewmember that had transported her. There was no sign of Daniels. When Nora saw the crewmember get into the dinghy, she knew her wait was over. She heard the engine engage as she put on the oxygen tank. She slipped on the goggles next and, not wanting to risk making noise, she climbed over the side backward. She reached back in the boat with both hands and grabbed the Submerge underwater scooter. It was heavy at fifty pounds, but once she lowered herself in the water and went under, the DPV—diver propulsion vehicle—required her to expend little physical effort as she stealthily headed toward Daniels’s yacht. She rose to the surface just prior to reaching the craft. She checked toward shore and saw the dinghy still hadn’t reached land. If her understanding of the routine was correct, the crewmember would make sure the woman made it home safely. There was also a good possibility he would join his mates for a nightcap before returning to the yacht, giving Nora less to worry about.

She tied the DPV to the yacht below the surface so it wouldn’t clang against the side. She cautiously climbed aboard, listening for any sounds of movement. Nora unzipped the airtight pouch attached to her waist and withdrew the 9 mm weapon. From the same pouch she extracted a silencer and screwed it into place. She took off her dive fins, stacking them in the darkness so they wouldn’t be noticed should the lone crewmember decide to take a stroll. Having studied the yacht’s schematics, she easily found the main sleeping quarters. The door leading to the master bedroom was ajar, and she could hear soft snoring. She eased the door open to find Daniels sound asleep on the bed, clad, thankfully, in his underwear. She closed the door behind her and crossed to his side of the bed. She laid the gun down on the nearby table and produced a small box from a separate pouch attached to her utility belt. She opened it and withdrew a small liquid bottle and syringe. She filled the syringe, tapped it with her fingers, and deposited the entire solution into Daniels’s neck. He sat up as if being stung by a bee.

“What the hell!” he said, reaching for his bedside light. He squinted to see whose life he was about to ruin when he noticed the gun barrel pointed directly at his forehead.

“It’s really for show,” Nora assured him. “I have no intention of shooting you. But to get the thought out of your mind, you aren’t capable of taking it away either.”

Daniels rested his head against the backboard, rubbing at his neck. “What the hell did you do? Who are you? Some Greenpeace protester? Save the whales? Is one of my investments encroaching on sacred land somewhere?”

Nora shook her head as she packed up the syringe and bottle, placing them back in the pouch. She took a seat at the end of the bed, resting the gun on her right leg. “Tubocurarine.”

“What?”

“You asked what I did to you. I gave you a shot of tubocurarine. It’s a neuromuscular-blocking drug. A highly concentrated dose. And this is about Erica Janway.”

She saw a trace of recognition in his eyes. Daniels then surprised her, revealing a sarcastic smile that nearly caused her to shoot him. “Ah, you must be Nora Mossa. You may not understand this, but your friend’s death served a greater good.”

“Well, thanks for not insulting my intelligence. All her death did was solidify your interests and further your efforts to shape the world.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re so blind as to not realize that’s exactly what our government has done for centuries. Men like me are suppliers, capable of intervening or lending assistance when the government either can’t or won’t advance a necessary agenda.”

“What you’re saying is, rules don’t apply to you?”

Daniels swallowed, beginning to feel the weight of his head. “Even in your line of work, that often becomes a gray area.”

“Erica Janway was a good person. A patriot.”

“Good people die … die … every day,” said Daniels, the words becoming difficult to get out. “Janway’s death at least paved the way for a more … more … manageable Middle East. Chaos sometimes leads to stability.”

“Fortunately, nature balances things out.”

“Whaaat duh you meeeeean? Whaaat arrrrr youuuu duh … doooing too meeee?” He could barely keep himself propped up.

“Bad people die every day too.” Nora got up and hovered over his pathetic existence. He was hardly powerful now. She leaned over and grabbed the oversized pillow next to him.

Breathing heavily, Daniel’s realized what was about to happen. He couldn’t raise his hands to defend himself. Couldn’t scream. His wide bloodshot eyes were his only form of protest left. He wanted to yell, “This is madness! Do you realize all the good I do in this world? I can make you rich beyond your dreams!” As the pillow began to cut off his flow of oxygen, Daniels knew this was one deal he couldn’t negotiate.

Ten minutes later, Nora was climbing back into her rented boat, not feeling the least bit remorseful about exacting revenge for her friend, or for the countless others, she was sure, whose deaths Roger Daniels was responsible for.

CHAPTER
78

The last month had been extremely tiresome and nerve-racking for Yosef Ezra. His first full night of sleep had come just last week. After searching and searching, Ezra had begun to finally believe Yadin was buried in the Iranian desert. All of Yadin’s known financial accounts had been monitored around the clock with no activity. His perceived favorite haunts had yielded nothing. Ezra went so far as to have Yadin’s mother under surveillance. The team put in place to provide him with an escape route out of Iran had waited for days, but he’d been a no-show. Ezra had debated that bit of news for weeks. Was it proof of Yadin’s demise? Or was it a smokescreen? Yadin was the most ruthless, efficient, and intelligent operative he had ever cultivated. Over the years, no one had served the Mossad and its interests better. But Ezra had begun to see the signs. Yadin had started to question assignments more, his thirst for killing waning ever so slightly. He had also begun to think about the lure of a normal life, and for someone with his expertise, that was a bad thing. Ezra had wrestled with the decision, but in the end, he felt it had to be made. At least Yadin would go out in a blaze of glory, not that the masses would ever know about it.

Some within the ruling party had begun to whisper Ezra’s name in association with the Natanz incident. When asked, the rehearsed line consistently came out that he was flattered that others thought he was capable of such a grand achievement. He had been told the inquiry was generated by the United States through a White House dignitary at a Washington cocktail party. That same official had strongly suggested Daniel Wassermann be called home from the Israeli Embassy. To maintain harmony, the “request” had been granted, but the Israelis let it be known they were not pleased with the implication.

Ezra’s call for additional security shortly after Natanz had been granted without protest. All high-ranking officials had been encouraged to increase their level of safety in case of backlash over what had happened in Iran. The Israelis had gotten out in front of the situation by maintaining their innocence, warning that serious consequences would follow an unprovoked attack against its land or people. All Ezra could do was smile, knowing only a select few held the secret.

More than a month had passed since Iran’s mishap. Middle Eastern countries considering nuclear power took a long, hard look at the costs, both financial and human. Hundreds had perished at Natanz, and billions of dollars had been wasted, a portion of that amount pocketed under several umbrella corporations of the Global Watch Institute. President Shahroudi was under extreme internal pressure, and the people were growing more restless with each passing day over the country’s economic woes. Iran’s neighboring states were still none too pleased with what might have been. In the end, Ezra had come to grips with there being no radioactive fallout. The destruction alone had yielded the desired outcome. He was feeling much better about his situation, and Israel was a safer place today than it had been in a long while. A part of him wished he could take credit for Natanz, but that would surely result in the Arab world knocking loudly at Israel’s door.

A sure sign of his growing confidence was Ezra’s comfort with being seen in public more. At some point, he had to move on with his life. He made the gesture of reducing his security detail to just one person at a time. Even then it was a rotation of three people he’d handpicked, their loyalty beyond question.

He was feeling especially euphoric this evening, sitting in the audience of the Tel Aviv Performing Arts Center with his two granddaughters, enjoying a rendition of
Cinderella
. He found himself laughing, not so much at the age-old tale, but because his granddaughters were having such a great time. It was cathartic to laugh, but his best intentions were interrupted by his cell phone buzzing for the third time. He didn’t recognize the number on the display, but it was damn annoying. Only certain people knew how to get in touch with him on this phone. He turned to his girls, telling them he’d be right back. At the end of the row, he engaged his security guard, who did his best to remain in the shadows. Ezra raised his phone and told him he had to return a call, instructing the guard to watch over the girls. Ezra eased the guard’s protesting stance, indicating he would be fine on his own for a few minutes.

Once in the hallway, Ezra decided the first order of business was to visit the bathroom, since a growing prostate was making these trips more and more frequent. One of the inconveniences of growing old, he told himself. He found himself about to panic at the sight of a uniformed janitor outside the men’s room and a “Temporarily Closed” sign on a stand next to him. The janitor had his back to him and was mopping up the floor.

“Excuse me. Is the men’s room open or closed?”

The janitor didn’t break from work and didn’t turn to look up. He tiredly said, “A toilet overflowed. Had to clean it up. I still need to mop a bit, but it’s open.”

Ezra thankfully pushed through the door. He saw a stall that had a sign plastered on it. “Out of Order.”

At least the place didn’t smell, and from his observation, it looked pretty much spotless. After he relieved himself, he heard the door open and registered the sounds of the janitor, his bucket rolling across the tiled floor, ready to pick up where he left off, no doubt. At the basin, Ezra decided to return the call of the person who was persistent enough to keep buzzing, but not considerate enough to leave a message. He heard the phone ring through his handset and after a couple of rings, lowered the phone from his ear, curious about the sound he was hearing. He saw the janitor’s mop sweeping back and forth around a corner, so the source of the sound wasn’t there. He was certain there’d been no one else in the restroom when he entered, and the janitor had only walked in a moment ago. Ezra ended his phone call and gingerly walked back to the bank of stalls. He hit the redial button and then, unmistakably this time, another phone began ringing inside the stall marked “Out of Order.” Ezra withdrew a weapon and crouched low so he could see underneath the stall’s doors. There were no feet touching the ground, and yet a phone continued to ring. He inched closer, cautious, his weapon pointed at the stall, ready to fire. Standing to the side, he swung the door open with his foot and took aim with his weapon. No one was there, but a phone sat on top of the toilet seat. He moved to it but didn’t try to pick it up, conscious that doing so might trigger an explosive device. He could read the caller ID, and staring back at him was his cell number. What he heard next nearly gave him reason to soil himself.

“Why, Ezra?”

He closed his eyes. The Devil was at his door. Ezra bent down and laid his weapon on the toilet seat before he was asked to do so. He turned to face his nightmare.

Yadin steadied the large-caliber, suppressor-equipped gun in his hand, not exactly the tool of a janitor. “Did I not do everything you ever asked me to?”

Ezra looked lost. Slightly ashamed, even.

“You were friends with my father. You provided for my mother. Why, Ezra?”

There were no exit-strategy words. The truth was the only avenue available. “What was at stake was larger than you—or me, for that matter. I placed Israel first.”

“And you thought I couldn’t be trusted?”

“You’re a killer, Nathan. A finely tuned machine, but you also have compassion. I’ve been in this business a long time. I recognized the signs that you were starting to question your contribution. What we ultimately had planned I knew you couldn’t live with. You wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“Senselessly killing thousands of innocent people? No, I couldn’t stomach that. There’s no justification for that end. As you’ve seen, we did enough.”

“But how long will the message last? We have been in a war for survival for decades.”

“And how much money did men like Roger Daniels make?”

Ezra at first was surprised Yadin knew the name, but then he remembered who was standing before him. Very little was ever left to chance.

“Daniels was necessary to accomplish the mission.”

“And what does it say, Ezra, that our own government didn’t sanction the mission? The American woman from the CIA, I understand she deserved better.”

“You don’t see it now, but again, a necessary step. She was on the verge of ruining years of hard work and planning. An operation of that magnitude had to be allowed to run its course, no matter the sacrifice.”