Targets of Opportunity Page 10

  “Cardona will command your team,” he said, pointing to the three men on his left, “Renaldo is in charge of the rest. You will move separately, advancing on the hill from two directions.” He pointed to a map on the table, depicting the U-shaped harbor. “Cardona’s team will arrive first and circle here, to the west. Once Renaldo is in place on the south hill, on his signal, you will both move toward the two entrances. As we have discussed, there should be little resistance at ground level. The real assets within this fortress lie beneath, and that is where the fighting will come,” he told them with a grim smile. “Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “Good. I will be in radio contact at all times.” He gestured to the wireless setup on the table. “You have already been briefed on your extraction. Two powerboats will be awaiting you here,” he said, pointing again to the map, “at the northern end of the Rue des Quais.” He looked around the room. “You know your assignments. Now go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MARAND, IRAN

  THE THREE IRGC agents who had taken Rasa Jaber into custody commandeered the interrogation room of a local police station. Once their identities as members of the Revolutionary Guard had been established, the Marand police had no problem relinquishing the room and staying clear of whatever this was about.

  Mrs. Jaber sat at a small table, two of the men seated opposite her, the leader of the group pacing behind them.

  “You are not providing the help we had hoped for, madame. This will not go well for you if you refuse to cooperate.”

  Rasa Jaber was a proud woman. She sat upright in the uncomfortable metal chair, fighting back tears as she stared at this stranger. “As I have already said, there is nothing for me to tell you.”

  He stepped forward and slammed his fist on the table. “You have nothing to tell us or you are unwilling to speak? Which is it?”

  She drew a deep, uneven breath. “My husband is a loyal Iranian. He has fought for the IRGC and for the glory of this country.”

  “He is a traitor,” the man bellowed. “And,” he added in a modulated tone, “may I remind you that he has also abandoned you to this fate.”

  Rasa had been struggling with the possibility that this was true, that she had been forsaken by her beloved husband. It did not seem plausible, nor was she prepared to believe that he had betrayed his country. She shook her head. “Ahmad was murdered, our home destroyed. Why are you not chasing the villains who are responsible for this atrocity? Why are you persecuting me?”

  “Is that what you really think, madame? That your husband is dead?”

  She stared at him without blinking.

  “Odd, then, that we discovered you driving across the country rather than returning to Tehran to mourn your great loss.”

  Rasa stared down at her hands.

  “Dead indeed,” the man said disdainfully, then reached for a leather portfolio on the table, shuffled through some papers, and removed a group of photographs. “Perhaps this will change your mind,” he said as he placed a series of eight-by-tens in front of her. The first was a photograph of Ahmad Jaber. Two men were standing on either side of him.

  “What is this supposed to mean to me?”

  “Please, have a more careful look,” he said. “We have gone to the trouble of having it enlarged, so that all of the details are evident. Have another look.”

  And so she did, not trusting her own eyes as she studied the picture more carefully. It was obviously a recent photo of Ahmad, that much was clear. But now she realized the two men were American soldiers. As she looked through the other prints she realized that he was being escorted into an American military vehicle. He did not appear to be under arrest or in handcuffs or otherwise coerced. He seemed to be acting voluntarily, apparently cooperating with these men. She looked up, her expression a mixture of outrage and confusion. “This is a lie,” she insisted. “This is some trick.”

  “No, Madame Jaber,” the man said in a voice that now bordered on sadness. “I am afraid it is the truth,” he said as he pointed at the image of her husband. “You will see that these photos were taken over the border, in Iraq.”

  She stared at the photographs once again, then returned her bewildered gaze to this tall stranger.

  “Now,” the man said more calmly, “perhaps you are prepared to share with us everything your husband said to you in the days before his defection.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PYONGYANG

  THE FOUR MEN were seated at a round, black lacquer table in the lounge on the top floor of the Yanggakdo Hotel. The entire room revolved slowly atop the tall building, treating each of them in turn to the full spectrum of the view below.

  Craig Raabe made a show of craning his neck around, then said, “This would be great, if there was something to see.”

  Sandor smiled. “Easy, big guy. We Canadians are polite guests, remember?”

  “Sure,” Craig said, then took a gulp of his club soda and lime. He was taking no chances with alcohol, not with an explosive pack strapped to the small of his back. “It is one helluva view though.”

  Sandor nodded, then had a look around the almost empty bar. “Not exactly doing land office business, are they?”

  “Maybe it’s too early for most tourists,” Jim Bergenn suggested. “They’re probably still out there oohing and aahing over the Arch of Triumph.”

  “Quite an authentic history tour,” Raabe said. “Sort of like visiting Epcot Center in an alternate universe.”

  Bergenn and Sandor laughed.

  “We’ve got company,” Kurt Zimmermann told them as he spotted Mr. Choi making his way across the room to their window table.

  “Gentlemen,” the slightly built Korean greeted them. “You are enjoying our beautiful views?”

  “Oh yeah,” Craig Raabe told him. “Breathtaking.”

  Sandor took a sip of his scotch—no American bourbon was in evidence—and looked up at their guide. “I thought we were going to be allowed some time on our own.”

  Choi gave a theatrical look at his watch, then said, “Just wanted to remind you, dinner in forty-five minutes.”

  Raabe nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for the update. You’ll be coming by every fifteen minutes, I expect, like a town crier?”

  Choi began to say something, then stopped, turned, and headed off to whatever vantage point they had assigned him to keep an eye on this foursome of travelers.

  Bergenn was about to speak, but Sandor held up his hand. “How about those Toronto Blue Jays,” he said. Then he laid three pins on the table. He was already wearing his. “Put these on,” Sandor said. “You’ll feel like a local.”

  ————

  Dining Room Three was as cavernous as the penthouse bar upstairs and as antiseptic in décor as their rooms. The four men suffered no surprise to discover the cuisine was consistent with the surroundings. What the food lacked in visual and culinary flair it made up for in the variety of hot sauces offered, each intended to mask the inferior quality of the ingredients. Mr. Choi joined them for dinner, which Sandor did not see as any particular hindrance, since open conversation was out of the question anyway.

  Shortly after their plates were cleared and tea was served, Choi announced that it was time to go. They followed him downstairs, out through the lobby, and into the van, where the reliable Mr. Sang awaited their arrival.

  Each of the four men was carrying a small bag, knowing they would never see the Yanggakdo Hotel again. As they took their seats, Choi frowned, then told them, “You will not be able to bring anything into the stadium.”

  Sandor did his best to look surprised, then said, “Well, that’s okay. We’ll just leave them. We all trust Mr. Sang.”

  Choi appeared to be thinking that over, then with a short nod gave permission to Mr. Sang to set off. As the van pulled away from the curb, Choi said, “You should be prepared for one of the world’s greatest spectacles.”

  He was not wrong, but he had no idea the spectacle wo
uld not be provided on the field.

  The arena, Rungrado May Day Stadium, is a colossal structure housing one of the largest arenas in the world, seating more than 150,000 spectators and accommodating more than 100,000 performers. The Arirang Festival is part circus and part gymnastics performance, famous for the human mosaics that are so intricate and so precisely executed they dazzle even the most jaded observer.

  As they approached the stadium Mr. Sang circumvented the throngs of native attendees who were coming on foot toward the eight main entrance gates. Sandor had not discerned any special markings on their van, but somehow they were allowed to bypass these pedestrians, as well as several remote parking areas and the ubiquitous security checkpoints, eventually finding a special access area reserved for foreigners and dignitaries.

  Sandor tapped Mr. Choi on the shoulder as they came to a stop. “This is rather an elitist entrance for a socialist country, don’t you think?”

  Choi fixed him with a cold stare. “I understand that you and your associates enjoy your Western sarcasm. It would be best, however, to refrain from such comments while you enjoy the festival.”

  Sandor returned the hard look. “Best for whom, Mr. Choi?”

  The Korean gave no answer. He stood and faced the four of them. “You will leave your bags on your seats and follow me. I have your tickets. It is most important that you remain close to me at all times for the rest of the evening, gentlemen. Do you understand?”

  Craig Raabe said, “It’s good to feel loved, Mr. Choi.” When their guide did not react, Raabe said, “I don’t suppose this show opens with a stand-up comedian from Pyongyang?”

  At least that earned him a frown. Then, without giving any instructions to Mr. Sang, Choi led them off the bus and into the crowd.

  ————

  The DPRK often hosts large excursions of honored guests at the Arirang Festival, particularly from the People’s Republic of China. Those contingents are typically accompanied by several thousand Chinese security personnel, making the arena virtually impenetrable. Byrnes and his team checked timing with the KCIA to be sure that Sandor’s team would not be encumbered by that additional problem.

  The four men followed Mr. Choi, wading into the crowd around the perimeter of the stadium. The walls were buttressed by massive support arches that covered the entrances. Inside there were several stands featuring posters, soft drinks, tiny mementos, T-shirts, and the ubiquitous Korean pins. “So this is where we can stock up on souvenirs,” Sandor said, but Choi hustled them past, clearly not wanting any of his charges to become lost in the crush of people on either side of the exclusive, narrow entryway. “Come,” he said, and hurried them inside.

  They obediently remained in lockstep, following Choi through the gateway and along a series of concrete ramps to an upper level. There they were handed programs and led to the front row of a mezzanine section. Sandor noticed the military presence everywhere—on the field, in the stands, and, to his dismay, on guard within the interior corridors behind them. He and Bergenn exchanged concerned looks, but said nothing. The only good news was the continuing mystery about the health of the Great Leader. As Sandor and his team knew, Kim Jong-Il had not been seen in public for months and was certainly not going to be at tonight’s performance. That meant the security, although in evidence, was at a much lower level than it would have been if Kim were on-site.

  They found their seats, Jordan taking the aisle and Choi placing himself in the middle of them.

  The field below, which was the size of several football fields, was already populated by more than seventy thousand people, all of whom were working with a series of colorful cards, readying themselves for the upcoming display of coordinated colors that would depict everything from vivid sunsets to martial arts to pictures of Kim Jong-Il. In between, acrobats of all ages would perform.

  Choi chattered away about the spectacular colors and precision movements and how it all served to exemplify the Juche ideal.

  Sandor tried not to yawn.

  Following a preliminary array of automatonic card flipping that was a sort of visual overture, Act 1 began. The programs they had been provided contained several languages, thankfully including English. A quick review informed them that they were about to sit through a pictorial history of the North Korean motherland in all her resplendent glory. Amazing, Sandor thought, that they can mount a production like this while their people are starving to death in the countryside nearby. He waited impatiently as the show slowly made its way through displays of carefully chosen historical events, a few of them real, but most of them imagined. The finale was an enormous replica of the North Korean flag presented by two hundred thousand perfectly aligned hands wielding small cards. As this first act concluded, the performers began rearranging themselves for the next series of choreographed moves. After a long break, when they were almost ready to begin Act 2, Sandor stood up.

  “Very impressive,” he said to Choi, “but I’ve got to use the facilities.”

  Mr. Choi became instantly flustered. “No, no I am sorry. Act Two to start.”

  “That may be, but I’ve got to take care of Act One, if you know what I mean.”

  Choi was also standing now. “Please, sit down. You are blocking the view of these people,” he said, then bowed slightly in apology to those behind them.

  “Okay, I’ll find my way, no problem,” Sandor replied, starting up the aisle.

  Choi protested again. “You must not go.”

  At this point Zimmermann stood. “Hey, if it makes it easier, I could use a pit stop myself. I’ll go with him.”

  “Sure,” Raabe said as he and Bergenn got up from their seats. “We’ll all make it easy on you. Come on, Choi.”

  Choi suddenly found himself surrounded by them, a short Korean bracketed by four tall Americans as they headed up the stairs toward the passageway that led to the men’s room. They reached the concrete hallway behind the stands, passing a few other spectators who were returning to their seats.

  “Which way?” Sandor asked.

  Choi pointed to the left, and they followed him, past a soldier who was standing guard with an AK-47 slung across his chest, and into a large, tile-lined bathroom.

  Two other men were inside, and the foursome took their time at the urinals, waiting as the strangers quickly washed up and left, apparently in a hurry not to miss the next series of card flips. Sandor had been told that the Koreans consider it disrespectful to leave your seat during the performance. He had counted on the bathroom being empty, and was pleased to see the two stragglers go on their way.

  Choi, who had been pacing back and forth, moved impatiently toward the door. “Come, come,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Sandor was the first to finish and he walked to the row of sinks. After rinsing his hands, he turned to Choi. “Paper towels?”

  The Korean could not believe the man was so dense. “Right there,” he said huffily as he pointed to the dispenser on the wall. That brief move was all Sandor needed.

  He stepped forward and grabbed Choi’s outstretched arm with his left hand. Then, with a quick, powerful thrust, he hit him under the chin with the heel of his right hand. As the Korean staggered backward against the wall Sandor moved swiftly to the side, taking him around the neck, then grabbing Choi’s wrist, forming a tight hold that choked off both sound and air as the smaller man struggled to wrench free until he finally succumbed to the sinewy garrote that rendered him unconscious.

  Raabe reached under his shirt and removed two strips of duct tape from the small of his back. The first he pressed against Choi’s mouth. The second, longer piece, he used to bind the unconscious man’s hands behind him.

  Sandor pointed to Zimmermann, then to the door. The team’s linguistics expert stepped into the corridor and called to the sentry, who was standing at a portal, viewing the extravaganza below. In Korean, Zimmermann said calmly, “We need some help here. Our guide has fainted.”

  Zimmermann’s relaxed tone, and the fact
that he spoke flawless Korean, gave the guard no reason for alarm. The soldier stepped forward, and Kurt politely held the door for him as he entered the bathroom. Before the man had a chance to assess the situation, Zimmermann hit him from behind, using the side of his hand to land a crushing blow across his neck. Bergenn was waiting, unleashing an open-handed uppercut that shattered the guard’s nose, sending blood flowing down his face as he crumpled to the floor. Kurt was immediately on him, driving his knee into the Korean’s back before grabbing his head with both hands and smashing his face into the tile. Then he took the tape Raabe was holding out and trussed the inert figure the same way they had Choi.

  “Bind their legs too,” Sandor said. “Take the AK-47, his radio, and whatever else he’s carrying, then stuff the two of them into those toilet stalls and lock them in.”

  As they quickly went about their work, Zimmermann said, “Why not take them out right now?”

  Sandor shook his head. “No need.”

  Zimmermann responded with a scowl. “The guard is going to be out cold for a while, but how long you think your polite little choke hold is going to keep Mr. Choi asleep?”

  Sandor stared at him.

  “Not long enough,” Zimmermann warned. Then, before stuffing Choi into the stall, he took the guard’s automatic pistol from its holster and drove the butt of it into the side of Choi’s head three times. As he drew his hand back for a fourth blow, Sandor grabbed his wrist.

  “That’s enough, Kurt,” Sandor said angrily.

  Zimmermann lowered his arm and Sandor took the gun.

  “Grab some paper towels, wipe up the blood as best you can,” Sandor told Raabe and Bergenn. “We need as much time as we can get before we set any alarms off.” He pointed at the unconscious soldier as Craig sat him on a toilet and shut the door. “What’d we get from him?”

  “An extra magazine for the AK-47,” Bergenn reported. “And that Tokarev, with two eight-round magazines in the pouch.” The Tokarev Type 68 is a Russian-style handgun, eight-shot, 7.62 mm. “Two-way radio. That’s it.”