Sandstorm Page 4

  Thirty minutes after Nora’s arrival, the second e-mail recipient was at the door with a briefcase in hand. Before stepping in, the taller man on the other side of the door looked down at Alex in silence. It had been nearly two years since they’d seen each other. After a few seconds, Duncan Anderson said, “One black man reporting for duty.”

  “Get your ass in here,” Alex responded, embracing the larger man as they chuckled.

  Duncan’s deep voice resonated throughout the suite as he and Alex engaged in banter that brought about boyish laughter. Their chatter stopped when Duncan encountered the statuesque brunette who now stood slightly before him.

  He was truly taken aback. “As I live and breathe … Nora Mossa.” The two immediately embraced. She concentrated on fighting back tears, but one managed to slip through.

  “It’s so good to see you, Duncan,” she offered, wiping away that trace of emotion. “He didn’t tell me.”

  Duncan looked quizzically at Alex, who gave no explanation. “I had no idea this involved you, either.”

  Nora laughed slightly. “Well, considering the new look, and how long it’s been, I don’t know if it’s such a good thing you recognized me so quickly.” She gestured toward Alex. “It took other people a little longer.”

  Alex let the remark slide. He was hoping Duncan’s presence would be a calming influence. Seeing another familiar face might give Nora’s psyche, badly bruised by events real or imagined, a big boost.

  “All right, enough of the homecoming,” Alex said. “Let’s get to it.” They sat at a large table, and Alex beckoned Duncan to begin. The big man sized up Nora one more time before proceeding. Even though it’d been years, he could sense this wasn’t the same confident woman. Not once could he recall ever seeing her shed a tear. She was as tough and capable as they come. Or had been.

  Nora recognized the look. She’d seen it for the first time when she was eleven. As she stood by her mother’s side, a graying doctor looked down at her trusting, yet frightened face, and then to her mother, who nodded it was okay. That nice doctor with a wonderful bedside manner went on to deliver news that shattered a perfectly happy family’s life. Her father wasn’t expected to survive his massive heart attack. That same gaze was now in a friend’s eyes.

  Duncan’s oversized hand withdrew a stack of papers from his leather briefcase and laid them in a neat pile in front of him.

  “Erica Janway was murdered at her home in Annapolis,” he began. Nora’s eyes glazed over but no tears fell down her cheeks this time.

  “How?” she asked calmly.

  Duncan understood that she and Janway were close. He felt compelled not to coddle her in any way.

  “Single shot through the heart.”

  Nora stored the image in her mind. She prayed she’d get close enough to those responsible. Someone was going to answer for her friend’s death. “Please continue,” she advised.

  Duncan sifted through the stack of papers, pulling out a section. He handed copies to Nora and Alex. “I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what the hell Janway was up to. The package she sent you may be a bunch of disjointed notes, but within them is some eye-catching stuff. The names, they’re key as well. Some I recognize as dealers on the black market. I’ve got feelers out, trying to get some background. I feel certain we can take the mystery out of one name. ‘Champion.’ Given the arena we’re operating in, I’d say that’s your current boss, Nora, and”—he locked eyes with Alex—“your old boss, mi amigo: George Champion. In case you haven’t been keeping up, he’s now director of the National Clandestine Service. The other names, unless something rattles my memory, are a complete and utter mystery to me. Just names on a page at the moment.”

  Alex stood to go make a drink. “In that case, let’s discuss tomorrow.”

  Nora was the only one surprised by the subject. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.” Alex made rum and Cokes for himself and Duncan, having been waved off by Nora. “Before we go any further, we’re going to discover if your concerns have merit or whether we can just drop you off at Langley. So, we have to prep.”

  Nora felt part of this was payback. She had failed to believe in him years before, and it proved costly for them. “Would you mind telling me what you have in mind?”

  Alex smiled. “Not at all. It’ll essentially be your ass on the line.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Seven heavily armed men were a bit much for what was supposed to be a simple business transaction. Perhaps they were being cautious or feeling nervous. The briefcase Dmitri Nevsky carried did, after all, contain a large sum of money. More money than any of the seven men had ever seen in their lives.

  Nevsky immediately sized up two of the seven, since they were the ones to greet him and his two-man entourage at the warehouse door of the TTI trading company. The two men had the smell of cheap alcohol and outdated cologne. Their clothes were nothing fancy, worn more than once a week, Nevsky surmised. Instead of the finer things in life, their money was spent on the tools that no doubt garnered them respect in the circles in which they traveled. Both men proudly flashed their guns as if they were holding onto their private parts. One carried a Heckler & Koch automatic. To a less-seasoned man, it would make a statement. Nevsky merely made note of it, as he did of the other man’s Uzi. He had little doubt the weapons had been fired at human flesh just to make a stupid point.

  Once inside the warehouse, two additional armed guards met Nevsky and his men. They joined the parade that eventually led them to an open, dimly lit storage area. Rays of sun managed to sneak through the dusty, grimy side of overhead windows. Three other men were congregated behind a long, battered table. They stood up from their chairs, postures filled with bravado. From the diversion of eyes, Nevsky knew whom he’d be talking to behind the table. He was also the best dressed of the seven, wearing a rich silk shirt hanging over imported jeans. The only part of the shirt tucked into his jeans revealed a polished automatic pistol.

  The guard with the Uzi walked over to Silk Shirt and whispered in his ear. He then returned to his position on Nevsky’s flank, along with Heckler & Koch.

  Silk Shirt raised an arm, motioning behind Nevsky. “So where are your trucks of merchandise?”

  “Close by,” Nevsky coolly answered.

  “So you represent our friend from Sverdlovsk?”

  It had been a long journey. Rain-soaked days and nights, bumpy roads, less than stellar sleeping arrangements, risks around every corner, and now this. Nevsky glanced around the mostly empty storage area.

  “You expecting someone else?”

  Silk Shirt accepted the observation with a smile. “No. In fact, we cleared the place out just for you.”

  “Good. Then you’re ready to house the trucks.”

  “I’d like to and will,” Silk Shirt said, bowing his head before raising it triumphantly. “That is, as soon as we finish our negotiation.” His hand inched slightly closer to his gun.

  Nevsky noted the position of the armed men and then his own. He let out a sigh. “I’m not aware that any part of the arrangement is open-ended. I was told this was a done deal.”

  “It’s a long way from Sverdlovsk to Gomel. Things change. Inflation kicks in. Have you not seen that the economy is in the crapper? We have unexpected overhead. As the Americans say,” he searched for the words, “life is a bitch.”

  Nevsky laughed softly. “I’ve heard that one.” Everyone produced a smirk. The storage area’s ambiance became more noticeable as things got quieter. There was a dull hum of air conditioners. From an unseen office, a radio could be heard. The storage area smelled of dampness and stale cigarettes. Nevsky was aware that the seven men began to shift their stance.

  He directly addressed Silk Shirt. “So, how exactly have things changed?”

  “In addition to what you have in the suitcase … our accountants and financial advisors calculated that we need an additional five million rubles.”

  “Whew,” Nevsky whistled. “That’s
quite a change.” He gave his men a hand signal that went unnoticed by the seven. He then made a move to the inside of his jacket.

  “Well—” A millisecond or two behind where they should have been, hammers were shifted into place and the seven men all had their weapons carefully trained on Nevsky and his crew. A surprised look surfaced on Nevsky’s face before he slowly withdrew his hand from a breast pocket. In it was a cell phone. “I’m not the one who can authorize five million rubles. A call has to be made.”

  With gun in hand, Silk Shirt motioned Nevsky to continue. “Go ahead. We are in no hurry here.” He looked affirmatively to his men as if to say, I told you so. They all relaxed a little.

  Nevsky had an anxious look as he waited for the call to be answered. After several rings, someone did. “It’s Dmitri. We have a slight problem. An additional-five-million-rubles problem.” After listening, he removed the phone from his mouth for a second. “You are Petrov?” he asked Silk Shirt, who nodded in turn. Nevsky returned to his conversation. “Yes, Petrov.” He continued to listen, filling in a mumbled response as he did.

  Nevsky tried to reassure Petrov, producing a pained smile to indicate this wasn’t going to last much longer. “Yes … Yes … I understand. Not to worry.” At last he ended the call and returned the phone to his breast pocket.

  Nevsky placed the briefcase on the table as he took in his counterpart. At the moment, he was full of contempt but was careful not to display it. This poor, stupid fool, he thought. A low-life thug who was attempting to make a name for himself by muscling his way into the big leagues. The man ran a small operation of organized crime wannabes, and the money in the suitcase wasn’t enough? Hell, it would have made their year and then some.

  “Well, Petrov. What can I say? You are right. Things change,” Nevsky said. The words comforted the seven but more importantly, got them to ease up even further. “My employer wants this transaction completed in the worst way, so he has instructed me to take care of the matter.”

  With the money already being spent in his mind, Petrov chuckled. “Good. Glad we can do business.” He gave his men a look of triumph and conviction.

  His mood changed quickly. In a span of seconds, the speed with which his mind couldn’t fully comprehend, Petrov realized he wouldn’t be spending that money after all. A bullet from Nevsky’s automatic burned a hole through his throat, shattering vocal cords and splattering blood on his expensive silk shirt. Petrov’s shocked system sent his hands to his throat to check if this was really happening. Then, he fell backward, landing on the cold floor.

  The man holding the Heckler & Koch, behind to the left, was equally caught off guard as two bullets fired by one of Nevsky’s men ripped open his midsection. Nevsky’s other companion neutralized the guard carrying the Uzi by knocking him to the ground with a sideways kick. At the same time, he placed two bullets to the head of the other man on his right, who was frozen in amazement.

  Having used just one well-placed bullet on Petrov, Nevsky was able to address the other two men behind the table, whose reactions were lagging. Again, he was efficient and accurate. Each man stumbled to his death with a bullet to the head.

  The remaining man on the left dropped his gun in surrender just as one of Nevsky’s men was about to pull the trigger. The man holding the Uzi was on the ground, waiting for the shot that would end his life, but instead his weapon was knocked away. Petrov’s surrendering guard was directed to get behind the table. He was joined by the remaining survivor, who favored his left side after the kick to his kidney. The air smelled of burnt flesh, and the hum of the air conditioners could no longer be heard due to the gurgling noises from Petrov, who lay squirming on the floor.

  “Now, do we still have any negotiation problems?” Nevsky asked the survivors. Both men enthusiastically indicated they did not. “Then this,” Nevsky grabbed the briefcase and walked around the table, “will soon belong to you. We’ll be back within the hour with the trucks.”

  Nevsky hovered above Petrov, who now only held one blood-soaked hand over his throat. The other lay by his side, no longer responding to commands. The man’s eyes were watery, devoid of all the sureness they once held. Nevsky bent down.

  “Petrov, you are partly right. Life is a bitch. But to finalize the statement for you, Americans sometimes complete the expression by saying, Life is a bitch … and then you die.” Nevsky fired a lethal shot to the head. He and his men began their exit.

  “An hour, comrades,” he said forcefully. He then stopped to address the stunned pair.

  “Congratulations on your promotions.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Alex returned a flirtatious smile as he held the door open, allowing an attractive blonde and her less impressive friend to exit. He knew, at times, he could be quite shallow.

  The morning edition of the Washington Post pinned beneath his arm, he entered the Starbucks on Dupont Circle at precisely eight a.m. While in line, he perused the front page of the Post, which offered updates on the usual spattering of hot spots. The war on terror waged on, gas prices were edging up again, and the District was in for another warm day.

  He ordered a medium coffee, doctored it up with cream and a couple of sugar packets. At least three other people were waiting for a seat in the crowded coffeehouse when he made his way to a window seat occupied by a slender woman wearing a black and white two-piece dress. If she saw him coming, she made no indication of it, and yet, as he approached, she gathered her coffee and purse and got up to leave.

  “Finished?” Alex asked innocently.

  “All yours,” she responded, brushing by him with barely a look.

  “Thank you.”

  Alex plopped his frame into the seat, took a momentary glance at the hustle and bustle on the street, and then returned to his paper. He pulled out his cell phone and laid it on the table. Dressed in a gray polo shirt and black pleated microfiber pants, Alex was not only comfortable, he also blended into the landscape without drawing any attention. He opened the sports section and headed for the box scores to find the breakdown of the Cubs game. It was early in the season, but seeing them only three games out of first place was encouraging. Thinking about Chicago reminded him he was due to make all the necessary family calls. He hadn’t talked to his parents for two weeks, and his California-sunshine sister had now left a phone message and two e-mails. Her last message started out with, “Where in the freaking world are you?”

  Alex turned a page of the newspaper and in doing so, slid over a napkin that had been lying on the table ever since he sat down. Written on it inside a circle was a simple plus sign. Anyone else would have interpreted it as simple doodling, but to him, it meant all area surveillance cameras were under control and everything else necessary to pull off his plan was in place and ready to go.

  Satisfied, he took one more look around. Grabbing his phone, he sent a text message to several people. It read, Send Bambi into the forest.

  Five minutes later, a taxi pulled up in front of the coffeehouse and Nora emerged. It was startling for Alex to see her this way because with the aid of a blond wig, she now looked like the Nora he remembered. She entered the establishment and got in line, glancing at Alex only as a reference point. She used her debit card to pay for her order. It bore not the alias she was using to travel halfway around the world, but rather her real name. With order in hand, she looked for a seat. A man dressed in construction gear and a Redskins hat dotted with paint drippings motioned her his way. When she arrived at his stool along the countertop, he was happy to get a closer look. He offered his seat, saying it was time to get to work.

  Alex covertly followed her movement. He could tell, even from his vantage point, that her eyes were devoid of contact lenses, revealing a set of green eyes that had once captivated him. The long-haired wig was virtually undetectable as being a fake. Alex wanted more than anything for this charade to end. The next ten or fifteen minutes would provide the answer. He didn’t want to think about what his future would bring sho
uld he be wrong about this situation. He wanted to walk away clean, send Nora on her way, and perhaps fly to Chicago to see his parents and take in a Cubs game. After that he’d entertain flying out west to surprise his sister. That sounded like a plan, much better than the one hastily put in place now. He drew some comfort in knowing that quality people were involved and that therefore there was little, except for the unexpected, that could go wrong.

  CHAPTER 11

  Even though the bland navy blue sedan had no distinguishing markings, any native Washingtonian could guess with a high degree of accuracy that it either belonged to the feds, District police, or one of the local TV news stations. It essentially was a case of hiding in plain sight.

  Karl Peters was in the back seat, his mind racing. He didn’t usually get to utilize the services of a driver, and he hadn’t really said much of anything to the man, but then he realized they were heading west on New York Avenue. To save time and aggravation during the morning rush, his driver was avoiding the backlog of the Beltway. This route would take them along K Street Northwest, a straight shot to the Whitehurst Freeway that accessed the George Washington Parkway and its gradual climb to Langley.

  “Luis, no rush,” Peters said. “In fact, let’s take the scenic route.”

  Having grown up in the District and being an avid bike rider, Luis had been a human navigation center long before technology caught up. He acknowledged Peters’s request by switching lanes through heavy traffic just in time to make a left-hand turn onto North Capitol Street Northeast. Like Peters, he was single, and every now and then, a private perk on company time was a welcome thing. It was shortly after eight in the morning on what promised to be another spring gem in the nation’s capital. The various Metro stops would be emptying the District’s vast female workforce (Union Station was a gold mine) and Congress was in session, all of which guaranteed a beauty pageant.