Sandstorm Page 2

  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.

  It was a rush order, which he detested, since details of his route had been arranged and taken care of by others. Because he was being paid a significant amount of money, he would go along—careful, however, not to place faith in anything or anyone.

  The plump, red-cheeked manager, who greeted him upon arrival, stepped onto the loading dock from the building. He avoided the rain as if he were allergic, waving for Nevsky to come inside. Nevsky left his post from in back of the trucks.

  The manager had a nervous way about him, his eyes darting from side to side, scanning the area. “Five more crates and we’re done,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Then, you and your men can go.”

  Nevsky nodded. “Fine.” He looked beyond the manager to the final load being picked up. “My count is as it should be.”

  “Good,” the manager said, as uncomfortable as a kid who needed to relieve himself.

  Nevsky started to turn and then pretended to be deep in thought, as if he were trying to jog his memory.

  “Oh,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “I, of course, have something for you.” He waved at his men in the back of the truck. An oversized duffle bag was ushered to him. The manager’s balancing act eased when he saw it. “I believe the agreement is half now and the balance delivered when we make our next destination,” Nevsky said, watching
the gleam in the man’s eye. “A representative will bring you the rest.” In truth, he hadn’t forgotten at all. It was just that he hadn’t had any fun all day.

  The manager followed the bag as if witnessing a baby’s first steps. “Yes, that is the agreement.”

  Nevsky turned his attention to the last crate being loaded, and his men quickly closed and locked the doors on the back of the trucks. Two other trucks had previously followed the same procedure. He addressed the plump manager one last time. “Then, we are finished here.” The trucks were already pulling away when Nevsky stepped off the dock and into a waiting Range Rover. The driver waited for instructions.

  Nevsky motioned forward with his arm. “Everything is fine so far.”

  With that, the vehicle pulled away as the manager hurriedly slid the loading dock doors shut.

  “Yes, everything is okay,” Nevsky repeated in his mind.

  And yet, as he glanced beyond the rain-streaked windshield, he found little comfort in the statement.

  CHAPTER 5

  Every now and then he’d open his eyes, and except for cloud formation, the same powder blue sky stared back at him. On the horizon, the deep water of the Atlantic Ocean was a perfect navy blue, preceded by a hue of green, which grew increasingly lighter until one could see the glistening row of white ripples closer to shore. It was another in a long stretch of beautiful days in paradise.

  Alex Koves felt the sun warm his body, his eyes shielded from the bright glow behind a pair of sunglasses. An unconscious move brushed free some of the excess water lodged in his black mane of hair, the remnants of several jaunts into the refreshing water. His six-foot-two-inch frame stretched out comfortably on the oversized beach towel. The sand beneath him was warm and molded to the contour of his body like a Temper Foam mattress. Drifting in and out of sleep, he lost sense of time and that was just fine with him.

  It required more work to maintain, but his body was still chiseled from the days spent as a world-class athlete. With the Sunday afternoon poundings of football behind him, his body felt the best it had in years. As an added blessing, the headaches were gone as well.

  Stereo speakers scattered about delivered soothing sounds of jazz from a boastful music collection. It was a musical taste handed down from his father who played it constantly in the household as he grew up. Many hours were spent listening and being educated on the various musicians and their style. Charlie Parker, Coltrane, Monk were like relatives. When his father took him as a preteen to see Dave Brubeck in concert, there was no turning back.

  The volume was set low so it complemented rather than drowned out the audio provided by the ocean’s waves and the swaying leaves of palm trees. The setting did wonders for maintaining his equilibrium. This was as tranquil as life could get. The private stretch of beach served as the backdrop for the two-story house his family had purchased as a vacation haven when he was a young boy. Back then it allowed them to escape the cold, harsh Chicago winters whenever they wanted. Years later, after convincing his parents to sell the property to him, he put the house through a major renovation. It was now an architectural showplace of three bedrooms, a tech-rich media room, gourmet kitchen, and wraparound deck suitable for serious entertaining.

  Nature provided a safeguard with tall trees and brush that lined the sloping, curved entrance road, preventing the casual observer from discovering the riches that lay beyond. With over a hundred feet of private beachfront, it was total tranquility.

  The long month was finally winding down, but like every year, it would exit with a bang. Decorators and caterers were due to arrive shortly to begin preparations for his annual Carnival party tomorrow night. St. Thomas was a totally different place around Carnival time. From early April ’til the first weekend in May, it was as if the entire island took a deep breath from months of tourist overuse and indulgence. And while Carnival meant roughly a month’s worth of added abuse, it was pleasurable energy being exerted: during this respite, the focus shifted back to Virgin Islanders—their pleasures and desires came first. If outsiders didn’t understand the attitude, the atmosphere, or the slight delay in service, that was too bad. The island was in a constant state of celebration. Roberts Stadium held a battle of the bands, a costume competition, and calypso singers, while Emancipation Garden hosted the gluttonous culinary delight of the Cultural Fair. The waterfront provided cramped access to the spirited, socially driven nights of food and drink at Carnival Village.

  After a late night of indulging in all that Carnival Village had to offer and still suffering the aftereffects of the four a.m. bump-and-grind of J’ouvert Morning, relaxing on the beach was exactly what the doctor had ordered. By now the children’s parade would be wrapping up in town. Many of the parents of the kids participating in the parade had been right alongside him at Carnival Village and J’ouvert Morning. By late afternoon, they’d go home and have a good nap, then awake to put the finishing touches on any floats or costumes for the adult’s parade. That activity would be followed up with another night of revelry at Carnival Village. Hell, Carnival only came once a year. Live it up. There was always Sunday to recuperate.

  The wind, surf, and soft music concealed the footsteps, which would have been hard to hear anyway since they were made in sand. Alex felt the sun’s disappearance but paid it no mind, figuring the clouds had once again cut in between. His peaceful existence remained undisturbed until a voice interrupted the calm.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  He should have been startled, but the tone wasn’t alarming—it sounded almost apologetic, in fact. He squinted through his sunglasses, trying to identify the person behind the voice. He couldn’t make out who it was, but the mystery offered promise, the voice extremely puzzling.

  “Hello,” he responded, inching up on his elbows. “Do we know each…?”

  “It’s been a while,” the woman said, anticipating the question. “A lot of distance between us.”

  His mind was racing. There was something about her voice. “Well, damn, if this isn’t intriguing.”

  He took off his sunglasses as he began to stand up. On the way, he couldn’t help but glance at the woman’s body, nearly bumping against it. She was toned, but not overly muscular. Long, shapely legs led to a trim waist and firm breasts. His gaze finally rested on the woman’s face.

  “You still don’t recognize me?” she said, sensing his apprehension. “All things considered, I suppose that’s a very good thing.”

  He stood back for a moment, not wanting to believe what his mind was telling him as he cut through the layers of disguise.

  Damn!

  The hair was shorter and brunette, not blond. The eyes he remembered were not the blue hue that stared at him now. The eyebrows were thicker and darker as well.

  “Nora,” he managed to say quietly, painting by numbers until the canvas took total shape. “Nora Mossa.”

  “Guilty,” she said with raised hands.

  He put his sunglasses back on and dropped down onto the oversized beach towel. “Thanks for stopping by,” he exhaled. “You look great. Enjoy your vacation or whatever it is you’re doing. Now, if you don’t mind, you’re blocking the sun.”

  She ran her hand through her hair, not yet comfortable with its shortened length—a petty concern, given her present situation. She knelt beside him, sandals dangling in her hand. She bit her upper lip while trying to find the words. Nora glanced at the ocean for a moment. From Rome, to Paris, to New York, to this tropical paradise, she had thought countless times of what to say. She knew playing on the emotion of their being former lovers wouldn’t be persuasive. Revisiting the past surely wouldn’t rouse any sympathy from him. She’d tried every way possible in her mind to make this moment less painful and more likely to promote understanding. The bottom line was, she needed his help. He was the only one she could trust and depend upon, even though, when he had needed those things from her years ago, she had failed him miserably. She was fully aware that she had some nerve being here, and
maybe that was where to start. Maybe he would respect that. If not respect it, perhaps he would at least understand the desperation that had driven her to seek him out.

  “Alex—” She reached out to touch his shoulder but stopped short. She gathered herself. “I won’t say I’m sorry. I conveyed that several times years ago. That’s ground already covered. I do wish I were here on vacation, and heaven knows I would not have sought you out if I were.”

  “Nora, whatever it is”—she could see a raised eyebrow above the rim of his glasses—“I don’t give a damn. So traveling all this way, you’ve totally wasted your time.”

  Part of her wanted to strangle him. Another part totally understood his reaction. “Damn it, Alex!” She tried not to significantly raise her voice. “Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? I would never attempt to reenter your life if at all possible. Not after the way we left things. You made your feelings toward me painfully clear. I’m only here because I have nowhere else to turn.”

  Alex used his elbows as support again. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds like you’ve got yourself in what you perceive to be a bad way. But your life and your world is one I don’t live in anymore.”

  “Alex, my life is in danger. I—” He cut her off with a raised hand.

  “Save it. Really.” He shook his head. “I mean, whatever it is, what the hell do you think I can do? As I said, that’s your paranoia. Your world. Look around you. This is me now. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.”

  She knew she was fighting for her life, so everything was fair game. “Does that mean you’ve totally forgotten? I don’t really see how that’s possible.”