Targets of Opportunity Page 6

  ————

  “Sir.” A steward interrupted him as he sat on the sundeck of the large yacht, admiring the blue of the sea and sky.

  “Yes.”

  “The captain asked me to inform you that we will arrive after dawn tomorrow, as you requested.”

  “Excellent,” Adina replied, then sent the young man on his way.

  He sat back and reached for the beverage on the table beside him, taking a sip of the cold, fruity drink. He reflected on his meeting with Hwang, Kim Jong-Il’s plenipotentiary for subversive activities. He was surprised the man knew so little of the plans that were already under way, but he allowed himself a silent nod of respect for Kim’s obvious caution, if not paranoia. At least the North Koreans were now fully on board and would fulfill their end of the bargain. That was the important thing.

  A few moments later, one of the other passengers on this voyage came on deck.

  “Renaldo. Sit,” Adina said in Spanish. “Have a look at this beautiful day.”

  Renaldo, some thirty years Adina’s junior, took the chair beside him.

  “Would you like a rum punch? Quite delicious.”

  Also speaking in their native tongue, Renaldo declined the offer. Then he said, “We have had further confirmation from Tehran.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The authorities have completed their search through the rubble at Jaber’s home. They recovered the remains of one body in the bedroom.”

  Adina considered that for a moment. “Remains? Have they verified that the deceased was Ahmad Jaber?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The death of such an important man and still no positive identification?” Adina shook his head, as if disappointed in the Iranians for such inefficiency. “Has DNA testing begun?”

  “I am not sure, we’re attempting to find out.”

  “Do that,” Adina told him, then took another drink of the punch. “Was there no one else found in the house?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “No sign of his wife?”

  “Not that we have been told.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” He turned from the glorious scenery, having been nearly mesmerized by the steady wake of the large ship. Now he cast an inquiring look at his companion. “As I recall the dossier, Jaber was married, was he not?”

  Renaldo nodded.

  “Odd then, don’t you think, that after a morning visit from Seyed Asghari, he meets his end that very same night amid the total destruction of his home and yet his wife is nowhere to be found?”

  Adina did not await a reply, sending Renaldo on his way to make further inquiries. Then he returned to his ruminations about Hwang, regretting that these developments might require him to have further dealings within Iran.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NEW YORK CITY

  SANDOR AND HIS team were told to put their affairs in order before they left for Toronto the following morning. The true risk of this sort of mission went unspoken, but it was understood that certain matters must be attended to before they became four Canadians en route to Beijing.

  Each went his separate way, dealing with their families and personal issues. Sandor was flown back to Teterboro, then driven into Manhattan. He made a few phone calls from the road, then headed for his first stop, dinner with his best friend, Bill Sternlich.

  Sternlich was an articles editor for the New York Times. He and Sandor had been close for many years, dating back to Bill’s assignment in the Washington bureau when Sandor was working out of Langley. They had both since returned to New York, their friendship intact despite the huge political divide that separated them. Sternlich was a confirmed liberal, his perspective having become even more skewed, as Sandor taunted him, by his long-running association with America’s most shamelessly slanted newspaper. Sandor, according to Bill Sternlich, was just slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.

  In fact, neither assessment was true. Sternlich was possessed of a far more moderate perspective than one would usually find in the daily screeds on the Times’ op-ed page. Sandor, although an archconservative in matters of national security and the sort of advocate for individualism that would make Ayn Rand proud, could be something of a social liberal, for which he was frequently teased by his friend.

  Political differences aside, there were indeed professional considerations that weighed heavily on the friendship. Sandor was limited in what he could discuss about his work for the government and, what little he might share, Bill generally could not print. Nevertheless, Sandor provided leads when he could, and Sternlich had been helpful in acquiring background information on more than one occasion, even managing to publish a piece that Sandor had penned when he was posing as a retired State Department attaché working as a freelance political writer. The friendship had survived, even in the face of recent events that had shaken them both.

  By the time Sandor arrived back in the city it was after seven in the evening. They agreed to meet at one of their regular haunts, Esca, on Forty-third Street and Ninth Avenue. Sternlich had reserved a table in the corner of the back room, where he was waiting when Sandor arrived.

  Bill stood and greeted his friend with a warm hug. “Been a while, pal.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  Sternlich was a few years older than Sandor, nearly forty-one, with the unmistakable look of a man devoted to a lifelong desk job. He sported a soft middle, pale complexion, and receding hairline, and his bespectacled gaze always bore that slightly weary look of someone who simply did not get out in the world enough. “So,” Sternlich said as they took their seats, “it’s time to catch up.”

  Sandor began by inquiring about Bill’s wife, of whom he was very fond, then about Bill’s children, a young boy and girl Jordan found endlessly amusing. After that he hesitated before asking about Beth Sharrow.

  “She’s coming along,” Sternlich said. “Time for you to see her again, I think.”

  Beth was an Agency analyst in the New York office. She and Sandor had been an item a few years back, and she became close with Sternlich and his wife. Beth remained friendly with the Sternlichs after her romance with Sandor ended, as all of his romances ended, without resolution or reason. During Sandor’s most recent assignment, Beth had unfortunately become embroiled in the action when she was identified as someone with access to him. She suffered a vicious beating that would certainly have killed her if Sandor’s backup team had not arrived in time to take out the assassin and save her life. Sandor felt completely responsible.

  Beth was hospitalized for several days, then spent time in rehab, where they worked on her broken jaw as well as her shattered psyche. Sandor visited her in the hospital as soon as he returned from Europe, but the doctors thought it might be best for him to stay away for a while.

  Sternlich had agreed at the time.

  “It might actually help for her to see you at this point,” Sternlich admitted.

  Sandor nodded. “As soon as I get back.”

  His friend responded with an uneasy smile. “Are we going on the road again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were still on some sort of medical leave.”

  “Some sort, but I’m ready to go.”

  “Right back into the deep end of the swimming pool, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  Sternlich gave him a curious look. “So our get-together is more than just a social catching-up session.”

  Sandor scanned the room quickly for what must have been the fourth time. “You’ve heard about the Jaber incident in Tehran?”

  “We heard Ahmad Jaber was blown to pieces in his home,” Bill replied in that straightforward manner Sandor so admired. Not only was his friend informed, but he never played games when it came to these discussions. Sandor wished he could be as candid, but Jaber’s survival and defection were still classified. “No group has taken responsibility, at least not yet.”

  “Right,” was all Sandor could say for now.

&n
bsp; “From what I understand, we’re well rid of him.”

  Sandor nodded. “Bad guy.”

  “Word in the media says a heightened security alert is coming down the pike. Any connection to the late Mr. Jaber?”

  Sandor nodded. “It turns out he may have had information that led to his early exit. I’m assigned to find out.”

  “You’re going back to the Middle East?” Sternlich knew the last time Sandor was there he was involved in the aborted mission in Manama, Bahrain. He also knew it was less than a happy memory.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “No. I’m heading a little farther east than that.”

  “That so?”

  The waiter came by and each man ordered a quartino of red wine, Sternlich a Sangiovese, Sandor a Montepulciano. As the server walked away, Sternlich asked, “That all you’re able to say?”

  Sandor hesitated. “No. Actually, this time I’ve got to tell you some things. I’m going to a place where getting in is going to be a helluva lot easier than getting out, especially after I take care of what I have to do there.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Sandor stared across the table at his friend. “Meaning, I may not make it back.”

  Bill shook his head. “Jordan…”

  “Hold on please.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m only telling you this because if something happens, something unexpected, I may need someone to contact, someone outside the normal channels. I have a feeling about this for reasons I can’t explain, and I want you to know that I may need to get you information I wouldn’t trust with anyone else. I need you to have a way to verify that the information is coming from me.” He reached into his sport coat pocket, removed a small piece of paper, and slid it across the table. Then he leaned even closer and whispered in a voice so low he was practically mouthing the words. “Take a look at this and don’t say anything.”

  As Sandor removed his hand, Sternlich looked down at the paper, a code in numbers and letters. “These are…”

  Sandor held up his hand, then smiled. In another barely audible whisper, he said, “Damnit, Billy, didn’t I just tell you not to say anything?”

  “Right.”

  Sandor then turned the paper over, revealing the words that read, “Memorize right now, then destroy.”

  “Those are the numbers, so you’ll know the communication is coming from me. Just in case,” Sandor said. “Just in case.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning, the yacht carrying Adina and his retinue arrived in Gustavia. The premier berths along the main dock were situated between the old St. Barths and the new, just down the street from Le Select—the Rastafarian hamburger joint that remains one of the few affordable places to eat on the island—and only a short stroll from a dazzling assortment of glamorous boutiques. Hermès. Cartier. Cavalli. Bulgari. Chanel. Dior. Vuitton.

  Cardona had driven into town early, grabbed a café au lait from the patisserie on the Rue du Roi Oscar II, then waited on the quay. Hicham had been instructed to remain at the villa, a one-man welcoming party constituting quite enough attention at this hour.

  Cardona watched patiently as the crew of the Misty II went through the slow and careful process of docking the large yacht, then he boarded and was escorted into the main stateroom, where he was soon joined by Adina.

  Cardona was clothed in wrinkled linen slacks, a button-front short-sleeved shirt, and sandals. Adina was dressed in well-tailored beige slacks, a pressed white linen shirt, and tan loafers of soft woven leather. He was holding a wide-brimmed Panama hat.

  “You had a good trip?” Cardona asked.

  Adina shrugged. “We shall see. I believe our Asian comrades are finally in lockstep with us. All that remains is to execute our plans with the required precision. That, my friend, will make it a good trip.”

  Cardona responded with a nod, saying nothing. Adina reflected on how he had taken a particular liking to this man—affection would be too strong a word—appreciating his no-nonsense style and the unquestioning way in which he followed orders.

  “We need to begin our work here.”

  “As you say.”

  “We’ve revised our thinking,” Adina told him. “We think it will be best to have the Americans begin their chase sooner rather than later. The weather forecasts seem to favor an earlier timeline.”

  “Good.”

  Adina smiled. “It is therefore time for us to send Hicham on his mission.”

  ————

  Cardona drove Adina and his lieutenant Renaldo along the mountainous road that led back to the compound on the cliff. When they reached the house, they strode quickly from the parking area inside the main building.

  Hicham was in his bathing trunks, soaking up the early morning sun on a chaise beside the pool. When he saw the three Venezuelans enter he jumped to attention. Cardona made the introductions.

  Adina gave a nod of the head without shaking hands. Then he turned and stepped to the railing to have a look out at the sea. “Beautiful view,” he said simply.

  When Hicham assured him that he would enjoy the villa, Adina explained that he and his aide would remain with the others on the yacht. Then he asked to see the layout anyway. Hicham grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it on, then led them from room to room. As they finished their walk along the concrete path overhanging the cliff, Adina said, “So, we are completely undisturbed here.”

  “Yes, except the housekeeper living in the maisonette at the foot of the driveway there. She comes in once a day for about an hour.” Hicham had a quick look at his watch. “Just about twenty minutes from now. Quite attractive,” he added.

  Adina glanced at Cardona. “I do not want to meet her.” Turning back to Hicham, he said, “Go and tell her she is not needed today.”

  When Hicham was gone, Cardona led the other two men back into the master bedroom suite. He took his suitcase from the closet and displayed the explosives he had successfully smuggled into the country.

  Adina nodded approvingly. “Time to get started, my friend.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Our sun-loving North African friend will begin the operation for us.”

  Cardona nodded.

  Adina placed a hand on Cardona’s powerful shoulder. “I have already arranged his passage, from here to St. Maarten, then connecting on the afternoon flight to New York.” Speaking to Renaldo, he said, “While we have lunch on the yacht you can arrange for his boarding pass.”

  Renaldo said that he understood, but Cardona seemed to be mulling it over.

  “Is something wrong, my friend?”

  “No, I’m sorry, no, I was just thinking, that was all.”

  The older man smiled indulgently. “Thought is the assassin of action. Do you know who said that?”

  Cardona gave a confused look, then shook his head.

  “I did,” Adina announced, followed by a hearty laugh that he prolonged until the two younger men joined in. When he resumed his serious demeanor, he said, “Tell me your concern.”

  “Well, once he arrives in St. Maarten, won’t he have to claim the bag and run it through customs?”

  “Ah, a good question. You see, Renaldo, why I tell you I am so pleased with this man? He leaves nothing to chance.” Turning back to Cardona, he explained: “There is a service here that allows a check-through, as well as a connecting boarding pass, both of which Renaldo will arrange for a small fee. We’ll take care of everything.”

  Cardona responded with a satisfied look.

  “Good,” Adina said in a way that made it clear the subject was closed to any further discussion.

  Cardona closed the suitcase and followed Adina and Renaldo from the bedroom back to the deck, where Hicham had just returned.

  “Well,” Adina said, “this is quite a glorious setting, is it not?” He did not await a response. “And you will also enjoy our yacht. Your co
mrade here has already had the pleasure,” he said, giving Cardona a fraternal clap on the arm. “Your turn will be for a fine luncheon onboard.”

  “Thank you so much,” the Moroccan replied with obvious satisfaction.

  “It’s settled,” Adina said as he held out his hand and led them to four chairs arranged in a circle around the small table on the deck. “First it is time for you to tell us what you two have learned about the technology inside the depths of Fort Oscar.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EN ROUTE TO PYONGYANG

  SANDOR REJOINED HIS team early the next morning. They met in a conference room adjacent to a private hangar at Reagan International Airport in Washington, where they were presented passports, visas, credit cards, and dossiers containing background information on their identities as Canadian businessmen. Then they were flown by charter to Toronto, where they would connect with the Air Canada flight that would take them nonstop to Beijing.

  “Canadian,” Craig Raabe mused on the ride from D.C. “I don’t have to fake some silly accent, do I Zimmermann? Sound like a Canuck or something?”

  Kurt Zimmermann grunted.

  “Hey, you’re the language expert.” He turned to Sandor. “What if they start grilling us about hockey? I hate hockey, don’t know diddly about it. They’ll see right through me.”

  Sandor responded with a sage nod. “Yes, I’d say it’s your lack of hockey knowledge that’s putting us at risk here, Craig. Tell you what, we have twenty hours or so on the flight to Beijing. I’ll spend the entire time regaling you with the history of the NHL.”

  Bergenn laughed. “Just make sure you’re sitting at least three rows away from me.”

  At Pearson International Airport in Toronto their first-class check-in went without a hitch. Their bags held no weaponry and no electronics. Only Raabe’s suitcase was fitted with plastic explosives and they were undetectable, or so Craig was assured at Langley. He knew the real test of that would come at airport security in Beijing and then Pyongyang. Meanwhile, the other three carried no contraband, not wanting to risk an arrest before they even made their way inside the DPRK. As Sandor reminded them, they would be unarmed and very much on their own.