Sandstorm (11 page)

There was much to take in at the Palazzo Ouzeri restaurant along the Old Venetian port in Chania, Crete. The noise level was pleasant, the distant tone of people enjoying a respite from the rigors of everyday life. The food, relatively inexpensive, was nonetheless tasty, especially when accompanied by several glasses of Cretan wine. The smartly dressed man fit right in with the throng of people who were trying to relax. For most of the day he had hidden behind sunglasses: partly because the sun was bright, but mostly so he could observe without being exposed—and, most assuredly, so that he could be left alone.

The little girl totally disregarded any expectation of privacy he might have had. He guessed she was around four or five years old. After putting his sunglasses on the table, and feeling yet another wide-eyed inspection, he unexpectedly made a funny face that caught her by surprise. It produced an irresistible giggle as she was eclipsed behind mom again. Her mother recognized something had captivated her daughter’s attention and turned around to see what all the fuss was about. She smiled in response to the man’s seemingly innocent expression, and was quick to say “Thank you” when he noted she was “precious.” The girl sat at a table of eleven, mostly adults, so the mother felt secure in not being overly protective. There wasn’t anyone quite the girl’s age to play with among the group, so she busied herself with her new friend, making outrageous faces in return. The mother admonished the girl by telling her to stop, but Nathan Yadin assured her it was okay.

“I’m just as guilty,” he playfully admitted. The little girl’s innocence was just what he needed at the moment. It was reassuring that he could still be touched in such a way.

This unscheduled getaway for him was meant to be therapeutic. If he worked in a more structured environment, the likely recommendation would have been to see a psychiatrist, and post-traumatic stress would have been the probable diagnosis. Yadin had never grown fond of killing, but he took pride in ridding the world of its ill citizens. Still, on this day, instead of totally enjoying the warmth and atmosphere of this gorgeous place in Crete, he was slightly troubled.

It was the woman.

He had nothing against killing women. They had, over the years, proven just as capable of devious acts as men. No, killing women was not a concern. Killing
that
woman, however, stuck with him. Other than her name, he only knew what Ezra had told him: that she had to die if the overall operation was to succeed. There was something about her, though, and hearing her speak, however briefly, stayed with him. Presented with the inevitable, she was not afraid. Others, when confronted with her situation, often begged for their lives or promised anything. He didn’t want to question Ezra about it—at least, not at the moment. There was too much at stake, and jeopardizing it on something he couldn’t get out of his mind seemed altogether silly. Yadin tried to put the matter to bed by promising when all this was done, he would learn more about Erica Janway. This was a first for him, caring about the dead.

For now, he fully intended to give in to what his body and mind were aching for. They needed rest. The first part of achieving that had him getting out of Paris shortly after his meeting with Ezra had concluded. He didn’t want to take the chance of Mossad or anyone else figuring out that Paris was where he officially resided. He didn’t bother to tell Ezra he was heading to Crete and couldn’t be contacted for the next several days. Yadin knew Ezra’s timetable. If there truly was a problem, an e-mail would alert Yadin, and that was the only thing he checked anyway. He was not the kind of person one easily got in touch with to begin with, so being totally out of contact was not unusual. Anyone looking for him had better have a damn good reason for doing so.

Yadin took a deep, cleansing breath as he soaked in the surroundings. This was what life was supposed to be about. People from different backgrounds experiencing the same things while enjoying and respecting each other’s existence. He winked at his little friend. Families spending time together. He liked to think he was doing his part in making people feel safe. Tonight, at least, he would go to sleep with that belief. That would be after he answered another of his mental and physical needs. He would find a woman tonight to lie down with. He wanted his strong hands to gently caress the body of someone soft. A woman whose scent made the air around her more breathable. He wanted it to happen naturally, which would require him to be engaging, at the very least. He could be charming. Just ask his little friend in the floral dress. He smiled at her a last time as he rose from his chair. The night was young, and he felt like being part of the action. He liked the sound of it. Before he left the restaurant, he stopped to pay his bill and in doing so, requested that an assortment of flowers be given to the little girl. He also instructed that her table’s tab be charged to his credit card. With that, he exited into the awaiting night in search of pleasure. So far, it was a good vacation.

CHAPTER
19

Technically, he was considered a senior citizen. However, at sixty-five, Senator Bryce Lipton hardly felt old. Perhaps that was because life kept throwing challenges at him, forcing him to stay active. Part of his unyielding drive was due to the fact he hadn’t yet achieved all the things he deemed possible in the political arena. He had clout and prestige, but for him, as for the wealthy person who craves yet more money, there was never such a thing as too much.

Growing up, he had known wealth, but as the limousine pulled into the grounds of the stately manor, he noted that this was altogether something else. The house itself had to be at least fifteen thousand square feet, well secured behind landscaping that easily was over a million dollars. The drive from his Capitol Hill office was uneventful, no serious traffic tie-ups. It really was a manageable drive, should he ever have to get here in a hurry. He prayed that such a day would never come. These meetings were usually held at an address in the District. This was his first visit to the “castle.”

The limo pulled up alongside a host of other chauffeur-driven stretch vehicles. There was a person dressed in a dark suit to greet him, or rather to open the door for him, as no words were spoken. Trying not to be overly impressed, Senator Lipton took his time exiting, his eyes taking in the enormity of it all. From the looks of everything, it was as if the property had a weekly salon appointment. Not a thing was out of place. The house sat on three acres of land that backed up to the Potomac River.

Property like this rarely came on the market—at least, not for regular people. For many motorists traveling along Chain Bridge Road, the smattering of homes and their super-sized opulence could only slightly be seen during the winter months when some of the foliage fell away. This avenue of prosperity, just across the Potomac River on the Virginia side, dwarfed what one imagined as being well-off.

As if he had stepped on an automatic opener, the double doors to the mansion gave way as he approached. Upon entering, he noticed but paid little attention to the two servants who held each heavy door open. A butler, or he could he be the concierge, officially greeted him in the expansive foyer.

“Good evening, sir,” he said with a slight bow of the head. “Please follow me. Mr. Daniels and the others are assembled.”

Lipton glanced at his watch as he followed the hired help down the hallway. He wasn’t late, but he got the impression he was the last to arrive. How many cars did he see out front? He tried to count, but the house had diverted his attention. The walls of the hallway were lined with works of art, many of which he had seen before—only in pictures or a PBS special. He recognized a Renoir for sure, and because of his love of the sea, he slowed down upon encountering a piece of Winslow Homer’s work.

They stopped at a huge wooden door, which, judging by the butler’s knock, was thick enough to stop large-caliber gunfire. Laboriously the door swung open, and immediately the heavy aroma of cigar smoke greeted Lipton. There were six men in the room. Some puffed on cigars, and nearly all had some sort of beverage in hand. In unison, they all took notice of Lipton’s presence.

“Ah, Bryce, damn good to see you.” The greeting came with a smile and extended hand. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Scotch and soda will do.”

“Coming up.”

Lipton followed the estate’s owner to the bar. According to
Forbes
and other business journals, Roger Daniels was sixty-four years old. If you believed what you read, Daniels worked out religiously every day. He also found the time to manage his nearly 22-billion-dollar financial empire that spanned the globe. Looking around, Lipton noted that if a bomb were to hit this room, the stock market would take a nosedive of historic proportion. Except for himself, this was a billionaires’ club. A single billion wouldn’t even get you on the grounds. Aside from Daniels, only one other individual was somewhat known by face in financial circles. The rest operated in relative obscurity. Yet, over the past three years, Lipton had come to know them all. There was no mistaking, though, who garnered top billing. This whole assortment was the brainchild of Daniels. At first these men would gather to exchange ideas and talk about future business opportunities and markets in the world. Then, Daniels realized their scope and influence could achieve so much more. To prove it to the others, he single-handedly engineered a coup d’état in a small corner of the world that wouldn’t draw much attention. Thus was born the Global Watch Institute. With its unheralded financial arm, the institute did plenty of charitable work and was recognized worldwide for bringing food and medicine to the hungry and sick. It also had the kind of clout that was capable of influencing political elections, both domestic and abroad.

With a swig of his Scotch and soda, Lipton found himself conversing and listening to the musings of men who could shape global economies just by picking up a phone and having a short conversation. Lipton admired that kind of power, but he knew he’d never achieve it the way these men had. He wasn’t even close to being a blip on that radar. But there were other ways. He knew that, and so did Daniels, which was why the two had found each other.

“Gentlemen,” Daniels said, immediately silencing the room, “let us proceed with the business at hand.” He led the delegation to a long mahogany table crafted several centuries ago, restored to perfection. Everyone took a seat, looking to Daniels, naturally at the head of the table.

His face was thin, giving way to well-defined cheekbones. The grey sown between his remaining black hairs gave him an air of sophistication. He spoke four languages fluently, and his many travels around the world had produced an uncanny awareness that certainly served him well in monetary matters.

Daniels acknowledged each man before continuing. “My friends.” Daniels extended the palms of his hands as he spoke. “We are on the brink of our greatest achievement. A daring and bold act for sure”—he raised an accusatory finger—“but, one that truly will reduce some of the madness that exists today and no doubt prevent, or at least halt for a considerable time, tragedies that surely will occur if nothing is done.”

One of the billionaires, whose fortune was obtained by managing money for others, interrupted. “Playing devil’s advocate here,” he began, looking at his fellow members, “isn’t the president heading in the right direction? Like some investments, the return takes time.”

Daniels took up the argument. “Years and counting in Afghanistan. Way too long in Iraq. Thousands of US troops dead and a public that’s fed up. Conflicts that have now spanned three presidents. We have a country that’s losing its stronghold and its way.” There were a number of nods of agreement. “
Time
is what we are running out of. Unthinkable before, other nations now test our resolve, knowing that a strong response from the US only weakens our global position. We had a terrorist madman responsible for attacks on US soil—the success of which spawned followers that grow in number by the day, thinking we are soft. Things must change. Things will change. We are here for the long haul. We have the means and opportunity to change the course of history. We can make this once formidable country great again. It’s time for the weak and uninitiated to get out of the way. The question is, are we ready to proceed? Senator?”

Bryce Lipton enjoyed being on stage. He was the go-to guy for the various network and cable television outlets, a frequent contributor to the Sunday morning network political talk shows. He gave good, concise sound bites that fit within the framework of a story, and he did so in ways that endeared him to the camera. He could be engaging and sarcastic or a wolverine when on attack. For years, the one thing Republicans had lacked was charisma. They offset the deficiency in the past by promoting themselves as the serious party. Lipton understood none of that mattered right now. It was time to deliver. You couldn’t dazzle these men with bullshit. Their vast empires were built upon one simple principle: results. They were poised, waiting to hear if the plan was worth their investment of money, time, and ideas. Lipton also understood if he failed here, his political future would be nothing more than a footnote.

“I think it’s important at the moment to make sure all of us are still in agreement,” said Lipton, taking command of the room. “Walk away now if you have second thoughts.”

There were no defectors, not even from the one billionaire Lipton thought to be the weakest of the group. He came from a good East Coast family, attended the right schools, married the right girl and generally sided with the do-gooders of the world. It was a positive sign that he remained seated.

“Very well then,” Lipton acknowledged. “A lot of hard work, as you know, has gone into this undertaking. To answer your question, Roger, everything is on schedule and moving forward.”

“So Baum has procured the materials?” Daniels asked.

“Shipment is waiting for when we want it. He’ll handle the transaction and then make a considerable profit on top of what he already has, thanks to you gentlemen. He’ll then authorize the transport to Iran, and that will happen once the materials are inspected.”