Targets of Opportunity Page 13

  It seemed blood and smoke were everywhere, backed by the dissonant screams of fear and pain.

  The first of Adina’s men was dead, the one Vauchon had shot. The second was dragged up, onto his knees, his arms raised above his head. “Listen to me,” the terrorist warned them, “this room is armed to explode in just a few minutes. We must leave or we’ll all be killed.”

  Two of the workers called out, saying that they had seen the intruders wiring devices all around the room.

  Vauchon stepped forward, holding his bloody shoulder with his right hand. The others kept their guns trained on the kneeling man as the lieutenant approached him. “Disarm the bombs,” he ordered. “Disarm all of them.”

  The terrorist shook his head. “They’re on timers. They cannot be changed, they cannot be touched.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I lie at this point? What would I have to gain?” Vauchon stared into the man’s cold, dark eyes. “How many more of you are here?”

  Before he could respond, one of the other staff members stood up, a woman in her thirties. She had a red-brown stain on her blouse from tending to one of her injured coworkers. “There are four more,” she told them. “They’ve taken Alain and gone downstairs.”

  Vauchon asked her, “How many more of you are down there tonight?”

  “Twelve, I think, including Alain.”

  The lieutenant looked back at his prisoner, who remained on the ground with his hands raised. “What are they doing down there?”

  “The same thing,” the man told him. “Setting explosives.”

  “How many men you have posted outside?”

  “Only the two at the barracks. We were eight in all.”

  “No backup?”

  “No, I’m telling you, just eight of us. Now please, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Vauchon ignored him and turned to the police captain. “You and your men lead the staff outside. No telling if he’s lying about backup, so be careful.”

  “You’ve been hit,” he said.

  Vauchon noticed for the first time that the captain was also bleeding. “You all right?”

  The policeman forced a weak smile. “I’m too old for this shit. What about you?”

  “I’m fine,” Vauchon told him. “Just go. And take François too,” he added, referring to his corporal, who had also been wounded. “The rest of us will hold on to our friend here and see about the group below.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  RUNGRADO MAY DAY STADIUM, PYONGYANG

  JORDAN SANDOR AND his team knew their window of opportunity would be slammed shut very soon. If Mr. Choi and the soldier they left in the men’s room on the lower level were not soon discovered, the three guards they had just eliminated would certainly be reported missing when they failed to check in as part of any standard patrol detail. Time was tight as the four Americans moved quickly behind Hea toward the luxury suite just down the corridor.

  Given the security throughout the stadium, Sandor was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He was surprised, however, that no guards were posted inside. There were only four middle-aged Korean men in business suits seated around a square table, obviously in the midst of a discussion, with no particular interest in the colorful proceedings on the field below. Each of them appeared shocked at the intrusion. Sandor knew that each of them truly was, but for one.

  As instructed, Hea did her best to appear terrified, which was not all that difficult since Sandor was holding the barrel of his automatic against her right temple as the five of them filed in.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Sandor said. “We have borrowed this young woman to act as our interpreter.” He gave her a nudge, so she might begin to fulfill her role, but the Korean seated to his left held up a hand.

  “We all speak English, sir,” the man told him. “You may release this woman and state the reason for your outrageous behavior.”

  Sandor gave the girl a rough shove and Hea fell into a chair against the wall. “We won’t be releasing anybody, not just yet.”

  Zimmermann was the last man in. He took a final look in the passageway, then shut the door and leaned against it, covering Sandor’s back. Bergenn and Raabe had already positioned themselves in opposite corners of the room, out of view from anyone who might have a sight line through the glass panels that looked out onto the field below.

  “Our outrageous behavior results from the fact that your government is presently involved in illegal activities against the United States.” Sandor spoke slowly to be sure he would be clearly understood. “If you answer my questions to our satisfaction, we’ll go away. If you don’t, we’ll kill you.”

  The same man responded. “You are mistaken, sir. Now lay down your arms before someone gets hurt.”

  Sandor understood the culture well enough to know that the first of them to speak would not be the senior man present. Sandor stepped forward and, as he did, he casually eyed the lapels of each man’s jacket. As was the fashion in North Korea, even highly placed dignitaries sported lacquered pins, including at least one featuring the visage of the Great Leader. Only one of these men, however, had the pin with the border design Sandor was seeking. He was seated to the right and Sandor was careful to evince no recognition. Instead he raised his left hand and struck the official to his left who had been doing the talking.

  The blow sent the man reeling backward, his chair toppling over as he fell to the floor. Another of the foursome, the man just in front of Sandor, who had been seated with his back to the door, began to rise, but Sandor grabbed him by the shoulder and forcefully shoved him back into his seat.

  “You see, gentlemen,” Sandor said calmly, “someone’s already been hurt.” He eyed each of them in turn. “I agree that violence should be unnecessary, but our time together is short and we need answers.”

  The man on the floor stared up, his eyes alive with fury. “Your time is short, that is certain.”

  Zimmermann, Raabe, and Bergenn waited in silence as Sandor glared at the man, then turned to the three Koreans who remained seated at the table. The man wearing the designated pin responded with a quick glance to his right that told Sandor what he needed to know. Sandor bent down and placed the muzzle of the automatic against the head of the man on the floor. “I don’t have time for this bullshit, so someone had better start talking,” he said.

  The man who sat facing the door finally said, “We had nothing to do with the airplane explosion.” His voice was eerily calm, and Sandor knew he was hearing from the man in charge. “You have made a tragic mistake in coming here.”

  Sandor stood, righted the toppled chair, and took a seat at the table. “The airplane explosion?”

  “Is that not why you are here?” The senior official looked to the other men at the table, then returned his attention to Sandor. “Ah, of course. You have probably been guests of our great country for at least the past day or two. You might not have heard of the airliner that went down in the Caribbean. It was on its way from St. Maarten to New York.” He then offered up a cruel smile. “I understand the flight carried many of your countrymen. What a pity.” Shaking his head he added, “What is the expression? Ah yes, foul play is suspected.”

  The four Americans were obviously rocked by the news. Since their arrival in the Beijing airport they had been cut off from any of the usual news sources. They had certainly not heard of an airplane crash. Sandor did his best to retain his composure, insisting, “I haven’t come about the sabotage of a plane.” The problem was that he had no way of knowing if this was the truth. With a sickening ache in his gut he realized he might have arrived too late to avert the disaster they had been assigned to prevent.

  Shaking his head the Korean asked, “If you are here not about that, then why have you come?”

  Sandor stared at the Korean, realizing that all he could do was press ahead. “You know why I’m here.”

  The man maintained his thin smile. “You are bluffing. As you Am
ericans like to say, you are on a fishing expedition. Your government has sent you here on a mission for which you will surely die, and now you are not even sure of the reason.”

  The man was right, based on what little the Agency had learned from Ahmad Jaber, but Sandor was left to make a guess that any liaison between North Korea and Iran would include petro-politics. He said, “You’re wrong if you believe we don’t know what your government is up to, just as you and your friends are wrong about trading oil for terror.”

  It wasn’t much, but the flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes was unmistakable. “You are speaking nonsense,” the man replied.

  “Am I?” Sandor spun around and faced the man to his right, leveling the gun at his face. “Why don’t you tell me, pal? Am I wrong?”

  The terror in the man’s eyes was plain, but Sandor gave him high marks for keeping his cool. He said, “You are wasting your time if you expect me to reveal anything to you. I am a patriot, loyal to our Great Leader, and I do not fear death.”

  So Sandor turned his attention to the man across from him, the man wearing the pin. “What about you?” he demanded.

  With another, almost imperceptible eye movement, the mole again told Sandor what he wanted to know.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kyung.”

  “Well, Mr. Kyung, are you prepared to die like your friends here?”

  “I am prepared to do whatever I must,” he responded. “Mr. Hwang and I will tell you nothing,” he said, with a nod of his head to the senior man in the group.

  Hwang. That was the name Sandor wanted, the name of one of the most influential ministers in Kim’s cabinet. Byrnes had not been wrong in wanting the opportunity to interrogate him, but what could Sandor get him to divulge here? They had little time for coercion and few options, so Sandor turned back to the man on his right and lashed out, smacking him on the side of his head with the butt of his pistol. As the Korean rocked back, Sandor drove a stiff arm into his sternum, knocking him off his chair. Then he said to Zimmermann, “Toss him over there next to the girl. If I don’t get the answers I want in the next sixty seconds, kill him and the other sonuvabitch on the floor.” Then he turned back to Mr. Hwang, still seated to his left, still wearing an implacable look of superiority. “You and Mr. Kyung here are not martyrs. You’re not the type. That’s for your robots down on the field. So please spare me the patriotic song and dance and tell me what I want to know.” Before Hwang could answer, he added, “And if you say anything stupid, like ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I’m not only going to have your friends shot, I’m also going to start taking you apart, one bullet at a time. And trust me, I’ll make it really hurt a lot, and I’ll make it last for a really long time. So,” he said, leaning back comfortably in the chair, “connect the dots for me from here to Iran to the United States.”

  Mr. Hwang offered nothing but a blank stare.

  “Uh huh,” Sandor said, turning his attention to the man across from him, the man wearing the pin that identified him as the CIA mole. “What about you, Mr. Kyung? Can you tell me what I want to know?”

  Kyung looked from Sandor to Hwang, but did not speak.

  “Come, come, gentlemen. I’m not exactly renowned for my patience.”

  “I do not know as much as Mr. Hwang does,” Kyung said in broken English.

  For the first time, Hwang could not control his temper. He turned to Kyung and began scolding him in Korean. Sandor turned to the girl. “What are they saying?”

  Hea hesitated, but Bergenn put a gun to her head, making sure her cooperation still appeared to be under duress. “Mr. Hwang is calling him a traitor,” she explained. “He is telling him to be silent, that it is only a matter of a few minutes before the soldiers discover there is a problem and come to take you Americans away.”

  Hwang now leveled an angry tirade at the girl, but Sandor simply nodded. “Okay, Kurt, shoot the guy on the floor.”

  “Enough violence,” Kyung called out before Zimmermann could follow the order. He looked at his senior officer. “Tell them what they want to know. They will not live to use the information anyway, is that not correct, sir?”

  Hwang thought it over. The notion seemed to amuse him. “Yes. You are correct.” He turned back to Sandor. “You are here to uncover some plot, is that it? Like the typical American cowboy, you ride into danger with no sense of perspective or honor or intelligence. Just guns blazing, as the saying goes, all violence and no forethought, an apt summary of your country’s foreign policy. And that is how you have come here, because your people are convinced that my great nation has become a partner in some dark conspiracy.” Hwang shook his head. “What incredible arrogance. Does it not occur to you Americans that free nations might form an alliance without initiating a plot against the United States?”

  “North Korea is entering into an alliance, is that what you’re telling us?”

  “Our great nation is expanding its global influence. That is all you need to know.”

  Sandor stood abruptly. “I don’t have time for a civics lesson from a government that controls its people with martial law and then starves them to death. I want answers and I want them now.”

  When Hwang stared at him without speaking, Sandor nodded at Zimmermann. Kurt grabbed a pillow to stifle the sound, then kneeled over the man on the floor and prepared to fire a shot into his head.

  Kyung leapt to his feet. “Enough of this!” he shouted at Hwang. “Tell them about the man from Venezuela. What harm will it do? They are dead men anyway. What purpose will our deaths serve?”

  The two Koreans locked eyes, and suddenly Hwang understood. “You,” he said coldly. “You are the traitor in our midst. I could not believe it when they told me it was so.”

  “What are you saying?” Kyung demanded.

  “You are the traitor,” the older man repeated. Then he turned to Sandor and fixed him with a cold look. “If he is the man you have come for, his help will be of no use.” He managed a grim smile. “You may think this is some sort of victory, but you are wrong. I will not tell you a thing, and he does not know enough to matter.”

  Sandor turned to Kyung, the time for pretense having passed. “I hope he’s wrong about you not knowing anything.”

  Kyung shook his head, stealing a quick glance at Hwang. “I know he had a meeting with a man from Venezuela, and I know that Kim Jong-Il approved their plans.”

  “Who did he meet with?”

  “A man called Adina. He had another name, but I do not know it.”

  “Cabello,” Sandor said with a nod of his head. “Rafael Cabello.”

  “They are planning something in the West, but I am certain the airliner explosion was not their purpose.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because their arrangement had something to do with an alliance that would provide us a supply of oil into the future.”

  “So what was the plan, damnit?”

  “I am sorry, I do not know. I think they began suspecting me. I was excluded from key strategy meetings. I believe that is why I was brought here tonight, to be questioned.”

  Raabe was standing at the door, listening to the sound of shuffling boots on the concrete floor down the hallway. “They’re coming,” he told them.

  Hwang was still staring defiantly at Sandor. “You see? The only truth this traitor has spoken is that you and your men are dead already.”

  From the moment Sandor entered the room he realized he might have to kill the other three Koreans to protect Kyung. If his cover was blown there was no way Sandor could leave the CIA mole behind with witnesses to his betrayal. Now they understood that Kyung did not have the critical information they had come for and they needed time to work on Hwang. He stared at the senior minister. “Well, if we’re dead then so are you,” Sandor said, pointing the barrel of his pistol at the man’s face. “Get up.”

  Zimmermann was now standing beside Raabe. He said, “If you two can finish up your chat later,
we’ve got some action down the lane here.”

  Sandor looked from Hwang back to Kyung. “I hope your escape plan is better than your intelligence gathering,” he said.

  “Yes, we have two possible routes, once we get out of the stadium.”

  “Once we get out of the stadium? I hope you have a plan for that too.” Sandor turned to Bergenn. “Knock those two out; they’ve heard enough for now.”

  Bergenn, using the butt of the automatic, rendered the man on the couch unconscious with a couple of violent blows to his head, then leaned over the man on the floor and did the same.

  “You’re leaving these bastards?” Zimmermann asked. Before the others could react he grabbed the large pillow from the sofa and, using it to muffle the sound, shot each of the two Koreans in the head.

  As Hea turned away, Sandor stared at Zimmermann for a moment but said nothing. Turning back to Kyung, he asked, “How the hell do we do this? Drag you and Hwang down the hall past twenty soldiers?”

  “No, there’s a tunnel under the stands, for government officials and honored guests.” He pointed at the smoked glass wall that separated them from the private area outside. The suite included twenty exterior seats facing the field below, but he was pointing to a door outside to the left. “There,” he said.

  Sandor looked to Craig Raabe. “First we’ll wire up a warm reception in here.”

  Raabe nodded and went to work, placing a charge at the entry door.

  “All right,” Sandor said, jabbing his pistol into Hwang’s ribs. “Anything else you want to tell me before we say good-bye to the Arirang Festival?”

  Hwang stared at him sullenly.

  “Have it your way,” Sandor said as he shoved him forward. “We’re moving out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  INSIDE FORT OSCAR, ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

  LIEUTENANT VAUCHON WATCHED as the police captain led his two gendarmes, the injured soldier François, and the staff of Fort Oscar’s main workroom up the stairs to safety. Vauchon was left with his two men and their prisoner. He looked down at the Venezuelan, who remained on his knees with his hands clasped behind his head.