Sandstorm (7 page)

Luis nodded as he gingerly deposited Peters in the back seat and was then caught off guard as the Good Samaritan stood behind him holding a gun.

“He dropped this too.”

Luis slowly stepped to the man’s side and gathered the weapon delicately from his hand.

“I’m on vacation from Louisiana.”

Luis nodded. “Sure you are.” Seconds later, tires screeching, the sedan headed for the nearest hospital, which Luis determined was the George Washington University facility.

As soon as Luis’s tire-induced echo dissipated, another car came flying up the street, horn blaring and lights flashing as it barely dodged pedestrians and cars. It made a stop that jolted its occupants forward. Doors flew open and two men rushed into the Starbucks. Onlookers on the street weren’t sure how to react as everything was happening so fast. Shortly after the two men entered the coffee shop, another car appeared; it, too, carried a set of men, whose movements mirrored the first.

Parked across the street the entire time, a white van inconspicuously pulled out of its parking space and joined the morning traffic. Duncan smiled behind the wheel, satisfied he had taken good pictures of the license plate numbers of the two vehicles that hurriedly arrived. The smile, though, hid what he and Alex had feared the most. Nora Mossa indeed had a serious problem.

CHAPTER
12

He wore an Armani jacket that covered a jacquard sweater tucked neatly into pleated trousers. Expensive, cushioned sneakers made his feet feel special as he moved easily through the growing mob of people, each step well placed on the historic pavement. His casual manner indicated familiarity with the surroundings. To him, the City of Lights never looked better than it did at the onset of dusk. He had traveled the world and seen countries and cities at their best and worst. He always felt Paris was the most beautiful.

A slight gust of wind filtered in from the Seine, making its way through most of the narrow streets of the Île Saint-Louis neighborhood. Every now and then, the breeze tousled strands of his jet-black straight hair back and forth along his forehead. He loved Paris, but on occasion, he missed his homeland. He tried not to think of it often, and the only reason it entered his mind this time was because of the man he was to meet shortly. He didn’t need to reference a calendar or diary. It had been fifteen years since he last set foot in Israel. The reason for his exile was simple. It was not a safe place for him.

At age nineteen, having never forgotten a face, especially
those
faces, he’d exacted his revenge. His actions set in motion what eventually became an occupation and the reason why he had to stay away.

They had been violent men who most assuredly were going to make more families grieve. Their attacks against Jews were so frequent, they had forgotten most of their victims. He was far removed from that young man now. Sometimes not even old photographs could restore the memories of innocence and optimism.

His world had been shattered in an instant on a bright sunny day in his hometown of Netanya. He had run for blocks, as he was apt to do at ten years old, in order to catch up with his father as he got off work from yet another day of protecting Israelis from the worst. Despite the daily dangers he faced wearing a military uniform, his father always preached there was good in the world. Not all Palestinians were murderous monsters. The good ones, in fact, often lived in fear of those who were set on never giving peace a chance—by which he meant the militant groups Hamas and Hezbollah, about whom he had nothing good to say. To him, they were savages worthy of oppression.

With sweat starting to soak his clothing, he had nearly caught up with his father when he gleefully called out. As his father turned with a smile upon hearing his son’s voice, two men encroached upon the decorated soldier from behind. A large hand covered his mouth, yanking his head backward in the process. The young boy slowed down, recognizing danger. When he saw the huge blade appear, he ran as fast as he could. His father tried to resist, but the other man helped to restrain him. In seconds, a wave of crimson dotted the wall of the building his body fell against. The two men were smiling when the boy came in low, swinging his fists with all his power. His father was on the ground, making the most awful sounds. The boy’s blows were fierce for one so young, and even as the man hit him hard in an attempt to drive him off, the boy didn’t pause. Finally, the boy had no choice but to end his onslaught because the pain of the knife inserted into his back was too much for him to withstand. He fell forward next to his father, unable to do anything as his father’s life drifted away.

For nine years, he lived with that day. If he had run faster, would it have made a difference? Had he been stronger, could he have helped his father subdue the bastards who had attacked him from behind, like cowards? Over time, he had dreamed about what he’d do if he ever caught up with the pair. He’d learned the assailants were skilled killers for Hamas, well financed and protected. Eventually, however, he’d realized his thoughts of revenge were mere dreams. He didn’t possess the stomach to kill. In having to take care of his mother, he’d developed a gentler side. He’d tried so hard to make her laugh. It was obvious he had become her life. In response, rather than go abroad for college, he decided to stay close to home. The hate had eventually escaped him. Or so he thought—until the day he saw them through the window of a restaurant.

They were
laughing.
To conceal his glare, he pretended to look at the menu. He remembered they’d also been smiling after they’d taken his father’s life. Since he’d only been ten when fate brought them all together, they would not know him now, but their faces were ingrained in his mind. A life filled with brutality and constant anxiety had taken its toll on them, but there was no mistaking who they were.

His hands started to shake, and he was unsure of what to do. His mother was shopping at a boutique down the street. He wanted to run and tell her that the men who destroyed their happiness were eating breakfast. But in the time it would take, they might disappear once again. Besides, what could she do? How would he prove to the authorities these were the men responsible for a decade-old murder?

Instead, he made a decision that would change his life. He entered the restaurant and made his way to the kitchen area in the back. He encountered a waiter and asked if the manager was on duty. The waiter raised an eyebrow and mockingly laughed, referencing the time. Thinking on the spot, he informed the waiter he was a new hire reporting for work. Since the restaurant was filling up, any help was welcome. He was given an apron, a pat on the back, a menu to learn quickly, and then orders to get busy.

The killers were cleaning up the last portions of their meal. From his vantage point, he could tell they were low on orange juice, and there were coffee cups on the table. He grabbed a waiter heading back into the kitchen, asked where the coffee and juice was, and rushed to get both. Sweat beads formed in mass on his forehead, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He approached the two men, praying for his knees not to buckle.

“More?” he managed to get out of his throat, holding up the pot of coffee and carafe of orange juice. It took every bit of concentration he possessed to keep his hands from shaking. The one he had tackled nine years ago and tried to beat with his then-tiny fists turned and said yes to coffee. The one who took his father’s life and stabbed him in the back waved him off. His eyes were lifeless and menacing. He was not an attractive man by any standard. His face bore the scars of many altercations.

At that moment, the young man knew if he went through with his developing plan, Dead Eyes would have to be taken care of first. He sensed the man was the more dangerous of the two. Later, he would wonder how he arrived at that conclusion so readily, surprised it came to him with such clarity. As he started to leave the table, the man with scars called out to him. He turned around slowly, fearing he’d been identified, a knife waiting for him.

“Yes, sir?” he said, making eye contact.

“Bring the check,” the man said gruffly before returning his attention to his companion. The young man nodded and headed for the kitchen. Once behind the safety of the doors, he found a large sink and threw up. Rubbing cold water over his face and neck, he continued to bend over the sink until he started to gather himself. He looked around the kitchen and discovered what he was looking for. He sauntered over and took the most impressive knife off the rack, carefully concealing it in the back of his pants at the waist. His next move was to the waiter’s station, where the customer checks were kept. He picked up one with a particularly large tab and made his way back to the table.

“Here you are, sir,” he said, placing the bill in front of the man with the blank stare and scarred skin. There was no going back now. He then went to the other side of the table and started to stack the dirty plates.

“This is the wrong bill,” the man said disgustedly.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“This is not our bill.” He held it up as evidence.

The new hire came around to the man’s side, positioning himself at an angle slightly behind him. To gain leverage and a firm stance, he rested his left hand on the table. The man laid the bill out and explained that they didn’t order that much food. The young man listened and pretended to examine the bill. While doing so, he slowly reached for the back of his pants. The move was shielded from the man sitting across the table by the mass of his partner. And besides, both were concentrating on the bill.

“My apologies, sir. In fact, I don’t think you have to worry about paying, at least not for this,” he said. Before the man could look up to ask what he meant, he moved swiftly, cupping the man’s chin with his left hand, forcing it back strongly. He was no longer that weak little boy with tiny hands. His right hand came into view and the long, sharp butcher’s knife in it ripped a deep straight line through the man’s neck. The blood splattered across the table, partially blinding his friend. That was an added benefit for the young man as he made the short steps to be within arm’s length. With all his might, he drove the knife directly into the second man’s heart, jerking it while it was inside to achieve maximum damage. When he withdrew the knife, he returned his attention to the first man. He had heard that sound before. Nine years ago, in fact—the last desperate gasps of air escaping a life. The rest of the restaurant’s patrons started to realize what was happening, and the place filled with screams and customers rushing to exit. The young man reached into his pocket and laid a photo on the table.

He made sure Dead Eyes was focusing.

“Remember him?”

The man, of course, couldn’t speak as he fixated on the image of the soldier wearing an Israeli army uniform.

“You killed my father nine years ago and then stabbed me when I tried to help him,” the young man whispered in his ear. The man remembered now. Stabbing a boy had only occurred once in his life, and until now, he had thought little of it. In a strange way, he admired his attacker, even as a final thrust was plunged into his back.

Weeks after the incident, even though authorities had no clue as to the assailant’s identity, his mother was deathly afraid for his well-being. He had killed two high-ranking Hamas members, and although the Israelis wouldn’t press very hard to find him, the militant group was paying good money for information. They had to avenge this act. His mom, meanwhile, reached out to an old friend of her husband’s. She knew that in doing so, it would more than likely mean severing contact with her son, but she knew of no other way. Word of the young man had spread throughout the ranks of those who would be impressed by such deeds. One of those people was a friend of his father’s who’d ascended to more meaningful work within the walls of Israel’s secretive Mossad intelligence group. At the urging of his mother, he decided to listen to his father’s friend. What the man offered seemed to make sense, and it was appealing. Intense training ensued. The young man proved to be smarter than the majority of recruits, physically gifted, and above all, seemingly oblivious to danger. He turned out to be a natural for Mossad’s Metsada division, which was responsible for the agency’s special operations assignments. His mother would have never believed her fun-loving son, the one who spent years making her laugh, had turned into one of the most skilled and feared operatives Mossad had ever produced. He proved to be a propaganda success story as well, because the Arabs had given him near-legendary status, fearing him immensely. To make matters worse for those who sought to harm Israel, there was no accurate description for the man Arabs called “The Devil.”

His real name was Nathan Yadin. He had killed many since that day in the restaurant. He often struggled spiritually with the violent nature required to get the job the done. And yet, even though he truly didn’t like killing, he was not one to hesitate when the time came. Through his training and situational adaptability, he now possessed a diverse and lethal skill set. Because of his reputation and expertise, it was necessary for him to live outside his homeland. With a price on his head, there were those who hunted him on a continual basis, as if this were the Old West. They might as well have been chasing shadows.

He guarded his identity so closely that not even his handler knew of his true residence. Each requested meeting was arranged by e-mail, and the location was always his choice someplace in the world. No discussion. On this particular encounter, he realized he was taking a gamble. Not with the man he was due to meet, but by the location he’d chosen for the face-to-face. He actually lived on Île Saint-Louis. The last half hour had been spent walking around, getting a feel for the crowd. It seemed normal enough for an early evening. He’d decided to take the meeting here because he was tired, and once it was over, all he wanted to do was have a short walk in order to collapse in his bed. The last two weeks had been especially taxing, and there had been virtually no time to relax while in Washington, DC. His only pleasure had been polishing off a bushel of crabs one night at a Bethesda, Maryland restaurant.