Targets of Opportunity Read online

  Sandor also told them that it was important, right from the start, that they assume the identities they’d been given. “Four businessmen on a trip like this don’t move like a Special Forces advance unit.” Once they received their boarding passes, he said, “Do your own thing, we’ll meet back at the bar in the First Class Club in an hour or so.”

  Sandor spent the time seated in a comfortable armchair in the lounge, going over the information that Byrnes had furnished, for his eyes only, to be destroyed before he boarded the flight to Beijing. There were several aspects of the mission he had been told that his men had not. The DD had left it up to him to decide when and how much of the data to share.

  Sandor put the file on his lap and stared out the window. Given the level of danger he and his men were facing, he wanted to be sure his mission would not be complicated by any information leaks.

  As he knew only too well, when people in government start talking, the discussions are quickly picked up by the media. That meant the secret of Jaber’s defection was not likely to stay secret very long, which would have a wide range of consequences.

  One aspect of those consequences was particularly troubling.

  If Jaber was telling the truth—that he had defected for fear of his own safety—those who believed they had already murdered him would not take kindly to the news that Jaber was still alive, especially since he was now cooperating with the Americans. It would be no leap of faith for his enemies to assume Jaber was sharing any intelligence he had about the scheme being hatched with the North Koreans.

  Carrying the thought forward, Sandor knew that the only edge he had in his incursion into Pyongyang was surprise. If the North Koreans learned that the CIA had information about these plans, the danger of their mission would increase by an exponential factor.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and called Sternlich. “Bill it’s me.”

  “How do I know it’s you? Recite the code.”

  “Not funny. This is likely the last time I’ll be able to call you in the next few days. I need you to check something for me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Sandor believed the best place to gauge whether a breach had already occurred was among the denizens of the fourth estate. If the channels of confidential communications had been penetrated, the media would be the first to know. Sandor trusted Sternlich as much as he could trust anyone, and time was short, so he elected a frontal approach. “Bill, I have to ask you something, but the entire discussion, even the topic we discuss, ends with this conversation.”

  “I understand,” Sternlich said.

  Sandor hesitated. “You remember our discussion about Ahmad Jaber yesterday?”

  “Of course.”

  “I never asked if you’d heard anything about him.”

  “I haven’t, but I can check around if you want.”

  “I do want you to. But tread lightly, Bill.”

  “I will.”

  “I need to know what the rumor mill is churning out about him. Anything at all you can dig up in the next twenty-four hours. Then I need you to text me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on my international cell number at this time tomorrow. If it’s yes, I’ll know I need to get back to you.”

  “All right.”

  “And Bill, there’s one more thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s extremely serious.”

  “I’m listening,” Sternlich assured him in a grave voice.

  “I forgot to cancel my newspaper delivery,” Sandor said, then started laughing.

  Sternlich took a moment to name the anatomical part of a horse his friend most closely resembled, then hung up.

  Sandor went to the men’s room. In one of the toilet stalls he tore up the contents of the file Byrnes had given him and flushed them away. Then he broke his cell phone in two, removed the battery, and gouged the internal transistor board with his pen. When he left, he deposited each piece in a different trash bin, then made his way to the bar and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TABRIZ, IRAN

  THE WIFE OF Ahmad Jaber did not learn of the destruction of her home until several days after it happened, when the Iranian minister of communications finally gave Al Jazeera permission to release the story. She was sitting in the living room of her sister’s home in Tabriz, watching the evening news, when the report was aired.

  An overwhelming sense of disbelief quickly turned to shock as the sketchy details were recounted. She stared at the screen as video footage displayed the wreckage of her demolished house from several angles. The reporter on the scene offered the government-sanctioned view—that the blast was caused by a faulty gas line. She sat motionless, gazing at the television, realizing that she had been waiting for something like this, expecting something like this, ever since her husband sent her away a week ago.

  And then the fearful moment came when the reporter said, “Only one body was recovered at the scene.” Then he said, “It is believed to be the body of a longtime civil servant in the administration.”

  Rasa Jaber waited, but they gave no name. She managed to draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly, unevenly, but she did not weep. She had been the wife of an international terrorist for three decades, so she watched the entire segment in stoic silence, then stood and trudged slowly into the kitchen, where her sister was preparing dinner.

  “Something has happened,” Rasa said, fighting back tears. Then, as calmly as she could manage, she recounted what she had just heard.

  Her sister nearly fainted.

  “Please,” Rasa implored her as she helped her sit down, “we must be strong. This situation remains dangerous.” What she did not say was that the danger now extended to her sister, her brother-in-law, and her two nieces. “Does anyone know I have come to visit with you?”

  “Only my neighbors.”

  Rasa shook her head. “All right. I will finish preparing the dinner. You need to go out and buy every available newspaper from Tehran. They are available nearby?”

  Her sister nodded.

  “See if you can find Hamshahri and Shargh. And your local paper, what is it called?”

  “Durna.”

  “Yes. And also try to find them from yesterday, even the day before. I need to look for every possible report.”

  “What about the English paper?”

  “The Tehran Times? Yes, that too, if you can get it.”

  The younger woman hesitated before speaking. “You know that they will all carry the same story, the one the government has approved.”

  “Yes, but every detail is important if I am going to find Ahmad.” Her sister still appeared unconvinced. “What is it?”

  “I am sorry to have to ask this, Rasa, but if Ahmad survived, would he not have contacted you by now?”

  Rasa shook her head slowly and managed a grim smile. “No, that is exactly what he would not have done. Now go, quickly.”

  Once her sister left, Rasa went to the closet, removed her suitcase, and began to pack. She forced herself to methodically fold each article of clothing, placing them neatly until she suddenly stopped, gripped by a painful spasm of fear, a palpable sense that froze her in place. She dropped the sweater she was holding and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, as if that might alleviate the awful chill. In a moment the sensation passed, but she still did not allow herself tears. There was too much to do.

  She knew her sister would protest her leaving, but Rasa realized she must depart immediately. It was for her safety as well as the protection of her sister’s family. At some point the people responsible would come for her, and this would be one of the first places they would look.

  Only one body had been recovered at the scene, Rasa reminded herself, and the reporter said the remains were yet to be conclusively identified. Rasa believed her husband was still alive. He had sent her away abruptly, so he must have known there was serious trouble ahead. Now her home was in ruins and a man was
dead.

  She believed that man was their servant, Mahmud, and she suspected Ahmad had arranged things to make it appear that he was the one who perished in the explosion. She also believed her husband’s ruse would soon be discovered and, assuming Ahmad was beyond their reach, they would search for her.

  All of this was more than mere speculation, Rasa told herself as she finished packing. She actually felt certain of these things. She had no idea how her husband knew their house would be destroyed, or why he would have anticipated events so as to leave Mahmud behind, but she knew the cleverness of Ahmad Jaber. Whatever he had done had bought them time, and now she must use that time wisely. Over the years he had tutored her in the means of escape, preparing for the possibility that flight would become necessary. He had mentioned it again last week, as they parted. Now that day had arrived, and she must act with both dispatch and caution.

  She took a moment to organize the cash that Ahmad had given her that night. Some was in rials, some in euros, some in American dollars. It was quite enough to fund her way to safety. She also removed from the inner compartment of her valise the handgun he had left her. She was no marksman, that was sure, but she knew how to load, to disengage the safety, to point, and to fire. If it ever became necessary, and now it well might, she would be prepared to act.

  Rasa replaced the gun and the cash, closed the suitcase, and returned to the kitchen. This would be a sad dinner, likely the last time she would ever see her sister and her nieces. She only hoped no trouble would befall them from all of this.

  She also hoped Allah would permit her to survive.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EN ROUTE TO PYONGYANG

  THE FLIGHT TO the People’s Republic of China was uneventful, and the four men got as much sleep as they could, knowing rest would be at a premium once they reached their destination. In Beijing they collected their luggage, passed through the “In Transit” procedures, then were directed to the North Korean airline desk.

  Sandor powered up his international cell. There were various voice mails and e-mails, but only one he was looking for. Just an hour before, Bill Sternlich had sent him a text that said, “No.”

  Sandor took a quick stop in the men’s room and subjected this cell to the same fate as his other phone in Toronto, then moved on.

  ————

  At Air Koryo each of them was questioned, their visas and passports scrutinized, their bags subjected to a double round of scanning. The four men engaged in ongoing banter, four chums on holiday without a care in the world, none of them so much as glancing at Raabe’s suitcase. Even if the weapons experts at Langley were right, and the C-4 was essentially invisible to a normal scan, the four agents also realized it would likely be discovered if the suitcase were opened and the lining torn away. Sandor could not help but think of his conversation with Sternlich, could not help but worry over the possibility that word of Jaber’s defection had already leaked and that he and his team were at a much greater level of risk than anyone had foreseen. So far, at least, Stenlich had said, “No.”

  As they continued their banal chatter, Raabe’s valise was passed through with the rest of their luggage and they were permitted to head to the boarding gate. Once aboard the plane, Sandor realized the dangers they faced may have more to do with aeronautics than espionage. The aircraft was an ancient Russian model, something Moscow had probably given away twenty years ago in lieu of turning it into scrap metal.

  The Air Koryo staff was efficient, but when the steward offered them beverages and Raabe made a joke about Coca-Cola being the world’s dominant power, his attempt at humor was met with an icy silence.

  Sandor knew there would also be nothing friendly once they entered the ironically named Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Known in diplomatic circles as the DPRK, and to the world at large as North Korea, it makes other dictatorships look positively tame by comparison. The lack of basic rights and freedom, not to mention communications, is nearly absolute, and these restrictions apply to nationals and foreigners alike. Unlike other countries, which welcome tourists, there is no unfettered movement within the DPRK. Sightseeing tours are precisely choreographed. The few restaurants which visitors may patronize are strictly identified and regulated by the state. The hotels are likewise designated, thereby simplifying the task of military surveillance, which is maintained even with regard to the most innocent guest. The only Internet use must be accessed via satellites controlled at state facilities, meaning that all messages are subject to monitoring and censorship. No cell phones are allowed. Television and radio programming are limited to news and entertainment approved by the Great Leader and his administration.

  Sandor watched as Raabe made another failed attempt to charm the stewardess, then sat back and stared out the window.

  After a couple of hours, and a surprisingly smooth ride, they landed at Pyongyang International Airport. They were led down a metal staircase onto the tarmac and into the main terminal. The building was small and squat and utilitarian, the roof adorned with an enormous billboard containing the watchful visage of Kim Jong-Il. They were herded along with the other passengers and required to fill out yet another series of forms, including the usual acknowledgments that they were not carrying any prohibited goods. Then they were subjected to a new round of interrogation and inspection.

  None of the four Americans cast so much as a glance at Raabe’s suitcase as it passed through a final scanner without incident.

  At the conclusion of the formalities, a Korean gentleman of about fifty, with closely cropped hair and unexpressive mien, stepped forward and introduced himself as Choi Ki.

  In heavily accented English, he said, “I will be your guide during your visit to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. You may call me Mr. Choi.”

  Sandor and the other three men introduced themselves, then grabbed their luggage and followed Mr. Choi outside to the small bus that he explained would be their transportation for the next three days. The driver gave his name, which was Sang Chung Ho. Mr. Choi then apologetically explained that Mr. Sang spoke almost no English.

  “Gentlemen, I must ask for your passports. I will hold them for safekeeping during your stay with us.”

  Sandor and his team were prepared for the request, but feigned some appropriate reluctance before handing over the forged documents.

  “Now please sit back and enjoy the ride into Pyongyang.”

  Sandor nodded to himself. He had no weapons, no means of outside communications, no one to count on when the action started except for these three men. The small bus might as well have bars on the windows, he thought. For all practical purposes, they had just been taken prisoner.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ST. BARTHÉLEMY, F.W.I.

  HICHAM DISLIKED CARDONA. He disliked him the first time they met.

  They were certainly different, he and this brutish Venezuelan, but the differences were not merely stylistic. Hicham would be the first to acknowledge that his relaxed approach to religion was troublesome to his stricter Muslim brothers, but Cardona was not a son of Allah. He was nothing more than an ignorant mercenary who viewed everything in life with a cynicism that precluded any commitment to a greater cause. Hicham was not a secular opportunist, he was loyal to his faith and committed to doing Allah’s work. So, although they were both engaged in this treacherous business, their reasons were worlds apart.

  Why should he have to suffer the disapproval of this infidel?

  Adina was another matter entirely. The man was refined. He was a gracious host at the sumptuous lunch they were served on the yacht. Their discussions revealed that he was a Christian who nevertheless understood the teachings of the Koran.

  Hicham realized, however, that this was a serious man, a man to be feared.

  When Hicham was recruited for this mission he was contacted outside normal channels, to the extent normal channels exist for such things. He was assured his services were required in the name of Allah, and that he was goin
g to be an important part of a massive strike against the Americans, a plan being organized by a consortium of various nations. Since then, however, his involvement had been marginalized and, although he could not complain about a few days of relaxation on this island paradise, he was becoming increasingly unsure of his true role.

  So, when Adina told him that his responsibilities had changed and he was ordered to board a flight that day to New York, Hicham was disappointed. His assignment in the Caribbean had never been detailed. All he knew was that his mission had something to do with the electronic installation at Fort Oscar. Hicham assumed he would be asked to either take control of the communications systems there or, at worst, help to destroy it.

  And now he was to fly to New York to meet a man he had never heard of, for reasons he would only be provided once he arrived.

  He was committed to playing a useful role in the upcoming attack, but he had been given these instructions by Adina and there was nothing to be done about it.

  After their lunch on the Misty II, Cardona was ready to drive Hicham to the airport.

  “What about my things?” Hicham asked.

  “Renaldo picked them up for you,” Adina told him, then called to Renaldo, who had just returned. He produced Hicham’s carry-on bag and his boarding pass. “Everything has been arranged.”

  “My suitcase…”

  “You’ll be returning day after tomorrow, my boy, no need for a suitcase.” Adina tilted his head slightly and offered him a wry grin. “Unless you don’t trust us with your things while you’re away,” he added, evoking laughter from the others, and a forced smile from Hicham.