Targets of Opportunity Page 3

  The Central Intelligence Agency’s most elaborate safe house, it is used only for the most distinguished and valued guests, such as Ahmad Jaber, until recently a senior officer in Iran’s state-supported terrorist network, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

  Jaber’s defection from the IRGC was greeted by considerable skepticism within the CIA unit devoted to countering Islamic terrorism. In the long history of counterintelligence gambits, practices of disinformation, false flag deceptions and other similar ploys had created a healthy level of paranoia whenever an enemy agent appeared on the scene claiming to bear unexpected gifts. Jaber was known to have been involved in the attack on the Israeli embassy in Buenos Aires and the training of operatives for the IRGC in Lebanon. He was also presumed to have been instrumental in planning the 1983 bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut that left 241 American servicemen dead. Deputy Director Mark Byrnes endorsed the suspicion that Jaber’s sudden departure from a career orchestrating murder and havoc might be a ruse of some sort. That view was shared by senior officials up and down the line, including the Director of Central Intelligence, the Director of National Intelligence, and the President’s National Security Advisor. Byrnes, for his part, was intimately familiar with the carnage caused by Jaber and his minions, and he was charged with the responsibility of rooting out whatever scheme was being hatched by the Iranians.

  When Jaber made his way out of Iran and into Iraq he promptly surrendered to the Allied Forces—which essentially meant American soldiers backed by the encouragement, and little else, of United States allies—and sought asylum through a back-channel connection he claimed to have in Washington. Jaber’s contact turned out to be someone in the State Department he had met only once, at a peace conference in Paris ten years before, and the American quickly disavowed having had any communication with the terrorist since then. Learning this, Byrnes insisted that Jaber be transported stateside and turned over to Central Intelligence for vetting, which was quickly agreed to by the President’s National Security Advisor as well as the Agency’s Director. The CIA medical team began by subjecting the Iranian to a complete physical. One of Byrnes’s theories was that Jaber, now almost sixty, might have contracted some fatal illness, and was intending to play out his final days doing as much additional damage as possible by feeding the Agency a giant helping of disinformation.

  The DD was mildly surprised when the tests revealed Jaber to be in excellent health.

  When the Iranian was placed under a mild anesthesia for his exam, he was also treated to a cocktail of so-called truth serum. Once he had regained consciousness he was still under the influence of a pharmacological mix far more sophisticated than sodium pentothal. The ensuing discussion, which is admittedly never as fruitful as an unfettered interview, was at least intended to determine if his defection was genuine or part of an IRGC mission.

  While a regimen of intense psychological programming might have prepared Jaber to withstand this sort of drug-fueled colloquy, he said nothing to suggest that his presence was any sort of hoax. Moreover, Jaber seemed to have information about a planned attack that was coming from someplace other than Iran, a compelling bit of information if any part of it turned out to be true. The specifics were muddled, which is often the case when confessions are chemically induced, and Byrnes looked forward to a further inquiry, once his prisoner was fully alert.

  And so, notwithstanding the DD’s continued misgivings, he had Jaber transferred from the CIA infirmary to the Gables for a formal interrogation. Then he called Jordan Sandor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NEW YORK CITY

  IT WAS JUST after dawn, and Jordan Sandor was in his Manhattan apartment, grinding through the last sequence of his daily exercise routine. Not yet forty, he worked hard to keep in shape, his current regimen including some rehab moves intended to bring him back to top form after the injuries suffered during his recent mission in Europe.

  He was in the middle of a series of sit-ups, working each elbow to the opposite knee in turn, twisting hard in alternating directions, when he heard the ring on his BlackBerry that told him he had a text message. He finished the cycle of crunches, stood, wiped his face with a towel, and grabbed the PDA from the table. The coded message instructed him to call on a secure line.

  He went to his bedroom closet, reached inside and unlocked the overhead panel, took down the metal box he kept there, and brought it to his desk. He removed the satellite phone reserved for these communications, turned it on, and, as he waited for it to power up, entered a series of numbers on his computer keyboard that emitted a frequency that blocked any eavesdropping in the room. Then he picked up the phone, which was now at full signal, punched in the familiar number, and said, “Sandor encrypted.”

  Sandor had not spoken with Deputy Director Byrnes since the debriefing at Langley that followed the mission he completed in Italy. He worked several weeks at rehabbing his leg, first at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland and then back home. He also spent time in the New York office, monitoring the work being undertaken by the Counter-Terrorism Task Force to undo the residual damage caused by the rogue agent Vincent Traiman, whom Sandor had successfully dispatched in Portofino. Now Sandor felt he was nearly back to full strength, regardless of what the Agency doctors had to say. He wanted clearance to return to action and so was not unhappy to receive a message from the Deputy Director. After a few moments he heard the familiar voice.

  “Good morning, Sandor.”

  “You’re up early, sir.”

  “We have a situation I’d like you to have a look at. I need you here, pronto.”

  “I can get to LaGuardia, be down to you in a few hours,” Sandor said.

  “No, I’ve already arranged transport. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs.”

  Sandor nodded at the phone, knowing that meant a few things. Urgency, of course. Also that Byrnes might want him armed, not wasting time with the security issues he would face on a commercial flight. And, most important, this was not going to be a meeting at Langley, it was likely going to be a private audience at the Gables, hopefully with Ahmad Jaber. “Am I going for a drive in the country?”

  “You are.”

  “I’m on my way,” Sandor said.

  ————

  Sandor had heard the rumors of Jaber’s defection while spending time in the Company’s Manhattan office a few days before. He was surprised he had not already been contacted by Byrnes but hoped that was the reason he was being summoned to Washington.

  He quickly showered and dressed, choosing gray slacks, black loafers with rubber soles, and a crisply pressed white shirt. He had a look in the mirror, his uneven nose a reminder of too many close-action battles, his complexion tanned and a bit weathered. His dark hair was cut just long enough to allow him to run his fingers through the thick waves, front to back—which he habitually did when he took time to reflect on something important. He was doing that now as he continued to stare ahead, his intense eyes no longer seeing his reflection, instead visualizing Ahmad Jaber. It was a confrontation he had looked forward to for a very long time.

  Back in the bedroom he pulled out his black leather “go” bag, already packed with two changes of clothes, toiletries, and other sundries. Then he returned to the metal container. He removed his bulky Smith & Wesson .45 semiautomatic with two magazines, his passport—and a spare passport with a NOC, or non-official cover, in the name of Scott Kerr, one of his favored aliases—and tossed all of them in the bag with the secure cell phone. After he replaced the box in the overhead safe, he checked the magazine of the smaller, Walther PPK .380 he always carried with him, placed it in its leather holster, and shoved that inside his belt at the small of his back. Then he pulled on a navy blazer, headed downstairs, and climbed into the Town Car that was waiting to take him crosstown to the East River heliport.

  ————

  Sandor figured Byrnes would eventually call him in for these debriefings. Ahmad Jaber was a major force in an area wh
ere Sandor had been involved in several operations. More than that, Sandor guessed that the DD would share his doubts about the authenticity of the defection. Byrnes might also want him to participate in the interrogation since there was some personal history there.

  Sandor suspected that Michael Walsh, Director of Central Intelligence, might be the reason he had not been contacted earlier. Walsh was not Sandor’s biggest fan, and he particularly disliked anything that reeked of vendetta. Sandor took no offense. He had long ago concluded that Walsh was just a typical executive at the top of a large corporate structure. The higher up the food chain, the more conservative the approach. The Director’s job was not only to run the Central Intelligence Agency, it was also to cover the President’s ass. It was the President, after all, who had given Walsh the job and who was, in the final analysis, Walsh’s boss.

  It was therefore inevitable that Walsh would worry about field agents who were constantly on the brink of skirmishes that could create international tensions, embarrassing incidents, or outright disasters. The DCI did not want those risks multiplied by anything personal that might pollute the decisions or actions of his men. On top of those concerns, Walsh felt that the more proactive and insubordinate the agent, the worse the risk.

  Sandor smiled to himself. He knew that, on some days, he was the Director’s worst nightmare.

  Fortunately, Deputy Director Byrnes had the ability and integrity to balance the risks and rewards of having men like Sandor out in the world, handling the necessary dangers inherent in covert operations. Byrnes was a career intelligence officer, not a political appointee or someone running for office, and even if he shared an Ivy League background and club membership with Walsh, he was willing to stand up to the Director for what he knew was right. He and Sandor sometimes disagreed about missions, and frequently about tactics, but they always had the same goal—to keep America safe by fighting her unseen enemies.

  ————

  As Sandor boarded the Sikorsky chopper that would take him across the Hudson to the private airport in Teterboro, he reviewed what he knew about Ahmad Jaber, an enemy who had dwelled in darkness for the past decade. They knew that Jaber had been involved in the planning of several devastating attacks throughout the Mideast, South America, and Europe. He had engineered these murders in the name of an extreme Islamic vision that the governments of Iran, Syria, and even Saudi Arabia refused to publicly acknowledge, even as each of them provided undisclosed support.

  These clandestine battles were still being waged along with the fierce struggles on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq, but somehow they did not touch the rhythm of life at home, not in the way past battles had gripped the nation.

  Americans did not actually feel they were at war, not really. There were no rallies to sell savings bonds as there were during the Second World War, or marches in protest such as the ones we saw against the debacle in Vietnam. As the horrors of 9/11 faded in the rearview mirror of the national consciousness, America simply parked its worries in an opinion poll and went back to the mall.

  Unfortunately, as Sandor knew with painful intimacy, these dangers remained real and present, and he was one of those sworn to repel the ongoing assaults on our security and our freedom. A secret war against the United States was being waged every day, and Sandor knew that someone had to stand and fight.

  Sandor also knew that Jaber had worked with Vincent Traiman, who was directly responsible for the murder of Sandor’s local operatives during a mission in Bahrain. When his team was exposed in Manama, Sandor was the only one to make it out alive, and he looked forward to the opportunity to confront the IRGC terrorist who may have been behind that massacre.

  So, even if Jaber’s defection made no sense, Sandor was willing to hear what he had to say.

  Then, if it was up to him, he would be pleased to rip the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ST. BARTHÉLEMY, FRENCH WEST INDIES

  THE FLIGHT FROM St. Maarten to St. Barths lasts just ten minutes, but the final moments seem like an eternity. The airport is small and the only runway is so short it cannot accommodate a plane larger than a sixteen-seat twin prop. The final sixty seconds of the approach require the pilot to navigate through an ever-present wind shear as the small aircraft passes from the calm air above the open Caribbean across the rocky hills that form the port of Gustavia below. At the entrance to the airstrip the plane must squeeze the tips of its wingspan through a narrow V formed by mountains on either side, forcing the captain to execute a drop of a hundred feet until the wheels bounce onto the runway, then struggle to bring the aircraft to a stop before it slides onto the beach of St. Jean and into the sea.

  This morning, two men sat in the last of the three passenger rows, watching as they passed through that mountain cut, the wheels of the small plane nearly touching the tops of the cars traveling on the road below before the precipitous drop to the sun-bleached tarmac and then the rush toward the runway’s end. When they were finally brought to a halt at the edge of the tarmac, the plane made an about-face, then taxied safely back to the small terminal. Almost immediately the rear hatch was pulled down, and a welcoming breath of tropical air greeted them as they disembarked down the short stairway.

  Hicham was a French-speaking Moroccan, a tall man in his thirties, with an olive complexion and handsome features, his head shaved clean, his amber eyes sleepy, his manner deferential. He led the way to the immigration booth, where he presented his passport, then exchanged pleasantries in the local language with the officer behind the glass-fronted counter.

  The man beside him, known as Cardona, said nothing as he handed over his Venezuelan passport, waiting for it to be stamped and returned. Unlike his more elegant companion, Cardona was short, dark, and brutish looking, his deep-set eyes distrustful, his gaze constantly in motion as if endlessly surveying the landscape from side to side.

  They picked up their luggage from the small carousel, one large suitcase each, and Hicham led them to a small row of courtesy booths where a local car rental service had a chalkboard with his name on it. He had reserved a small Japanese SUV for three weeks and, after presenting a credit card, he signed some papers and was handed the keys. They found the car in the parking lot and were on their way.

  Hicham was at the wheel, guiding them along the island’s main road toward the area known as Pointe Milou. “Nothing to it,” he said in English as he took a hairpin turn that spun them up a steep rise.

  Cardona grunted in response.

  They followed the hilly path through St. Jean, around Lorient, and ultimately toward a small circle at the road’s end that sat above a large cliff overlooking the sea. There they found the entrance to a steep driveway, which led to a compound of small, attached buildings that sat on a promontory jutting out over the water.

  Hicham stopped the car and had a look at the spectacular views. “Nice, eh?”

  Cardona said nothing.

  Many of the beautiful villas in St. Barths were available for lease when not in use by their owners. The place they had chosen, known as Villa du Vent, was one of the finest on the island, its remote location well suited to their needs.

  Hicham put the car in gear and wound his way down a steep, curved driveway that ended in a narrow turn. As they pulled to a stop, the housekeeper emerged from her maisonette to greet them. She was an attractive young Frenchwoman dressed in a short cotton skirt and an undersized halter top that displayed all of her significant assets to the best possible advantage.

  Hicham introduced himself in French. She said her name was Stefanie. He politely declined her offer to help with the bags.

  “We are here for rest and quiet,” he told her with a diffident smile. “I know of the services provided with the villa, but we will require very little from you.”

  Stefanie appeared slightly displeased at the news, responding with that signature pout Frenchwomen use when expressing anything from unhappiness to flirtation.

  “A
ll we require,” he went on, “is that you come every morning at ten, make the beds, clean the kitchen, and take care of the towels and so forth. Otherwise, we would prefer to be left to ourselves.”

  “You do not want your beds turned down in the evening?” she asked in her heavily accented English. “No assistance with cooking?”

  “No,” he replied pleasantly. “We are quite self-sufficient.”

  Stefanie responded with a curious look, obviously reaching a conclusion about the intimate preferences of these two guests. She told him that she understood.

  Hicham read her thoughts, but ignored them. “Other than your morning chores, we prefer not to be disturbed,” he told her again.

  Stefanie nodded. “Would you like me to show you around before you settle in?”

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  She led them down the cobbled path to the main entrance and into the entry foyer, where they dropped their bags. She took them outside again, to a concrete deck that surrounded the entire property. There were wraparound paths, stairs, and short walls all running to the edge of the property, which stood more than eighty feet above the sea and provided a panoramic vista three-quarters of the way around. The sea cliffs allowed for no entrance to the villa from any of these sheer sides. A large swimming pool on the far side of the deck was lined with a dark-blue tile that reflected the color of the sky, creating the illusion that the water disappeared into the horizon.