Targets of Opportunity Read online

  “I thought I would be here when the action started.”

  “You’ll be back in time. You are a key part of this team,” Adina assured him.

  ————

  When Hicham and Cardona arrived at the airport, the Moroccan said, “No need to wait. It’s a beautiful day. Bad enough I have to leave the island, go enjoy yourself.”

  “You’re the one who enjoys these things,” the burly Venezuelan responded. As punctuation, he offered a disdainful look at the tropical scene that surrounded them as they stood in the parking lot outside the small terminal. “I’ll wait.”

  Hicham shrugged. “Then let’s go upstairs and have a beer.”

  There was a bar on the second level that served Stella Artois on draft. Hicham ordered one for each of them. They sat at a table by the window where they had a view of the airstrip and the St. Jean beach just beyond. The barman served them, and Hicham said, “Good beer, eh? I love Stella.”

  “I thought Muslims don’t drink.”

  Hicham smiled. “How long have you been waiting to mention that?”

  “Since we arrived.”

  Hicham nodded. “Some men are more religious than others,” he said. “And some of us celebrate our faith in different ways.”

  They spent the next ten minutes in silence. Then the announcement came for Hicham’s flight. Downstairs they parted without any gratuitous show of affability, merely nodding good-bye. Hicham passed through security and strode out the glass door to the tarmac, where he climbed the few steps into the single-engine plane.

  When the flight took off, Cardona pulled out his cell phone and reported to Adina, then returned to the villa at Pointe Milou.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PYONGYANG

  THE GRANTING OF a tourist visa into the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea carries with it obligations that transcend the temporary abandonment of privacy and freedom. For one thing, guests are required to suffer through a mind-numbing sightseeing tour, every feature of which pays homage to the Great Leader.

  Sandor and his men had no sooner boarded the van being piloted by the taciturn Mr. Sang when their bilingual guide Mr. Choi stood up and described the mandatory itinerary they would enjoy on the way to the hotel. Sandor responded with a bemused smile. He had been fully informed of this ritual and the fact that it was compulsory. There was no artifice here, no inquiry by Mr. Choi if these visitors would like to drop off their luggage first, take a shower, or perhaps relax for an hour before they began their predetermined journey through Kim-land. They were simply informed of what was to come next, then instructed to remain in their seats as the van whisked them along their way.

  The vehicle was large enough for a contingent more than twice their size, so each of the four men occupied a two-seat bench, with Raabe across the aisle from Sandor, Zimmermann and Bergenn behind them. As they entered the highway to Pyongyang, the most striking feature of the multi-lane road was the absence of traffic. In a country where the leadership extols the illusions of its extraordinary economic success and the triumph of the “Juche Idea”—Kim’s ideology of national independence—the general population had somehow been left out of the equation. Not only are they lacking cars, televisions, and other amenities the Western world takes for granted, they are also lacking food. The people of North Korea had been facing a deadly famine for more than a decade, with no end in sight.

  As if no such problems existed, Mr. Choi stood facing his guests, droning on about the magnificence of his great country until they reached Mansu Hill, where the bus came to a stop at a large plaza, in the center of which stood an enormous statue of Kim Il-Sung, father of Kim Jong-Il.

  Towering over Pyongyang below, the image of the country’s former leader stands with arm upraised, apparently exhorting his minions to worship him as they would a deity. When Mr. Choi informed them it was time to leave the vehicle and admire the monument, Craig Raabe turned to Sandor and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Easy, big guy,” Sandor said as he stood. They had all been briefed on what was to come, but Sandor knew more about it than any of the others.

  Mr. Choi led them outside with Sang remaining in the driver’s seat as they filed past him. He looked as if he were bolted in place. Choi carried a small bouquet that had been sitting beside him on the front seat.

  Out on the street he said, “It is our custom that visitors honor the Great Leader by placing flowers at the base of our Glorious General’s statue.” Then he held them out straight-armed, as if part of some formal ceremony.

  Knowing this moment would come, the four agents had drawn straws on the flight to Beijing. Zimmermann had lost. Now he stared at the bouquet as if it might be contaminated.

  “Kurt, why not do the honors,” Sandor urged him with a grin.

  Zimmermann glared at Sandor, then reached for the flowers, resisting the urge to snatch them from Choi’s tiny hands and throw them on the pavement. He walked toward the monument and set the bouquet on the ground at the base of the gigantic shrine, then backed away.

  Mr. Choi hurried forward and stopped him. “Please, you must bow,” he said in a tense voice that told Sandor and the others that they were being watched and, by definition, that Mr. Choi was being judged. Sandor had a look around, but the plaza was almost completely empty. Then he glanced at Mr. Sang, still in the bus, who was silently observing the proceedings. Sandor nodded, but Sang did nothing to acknowledge him.

  Kurt Zimmermann shot the other three a dirty look, then turned back to the gigantic image of the Supreme Commander, gave a brief nod of his head, then stepped back.

  “Very nice,” Raabe said with a grin.

  “Screw you very much,” Zimmermann replied.

  Choi told them they must now observe a moment of silence, after which he herded them back onto the bus.

  The other stops on their route involved similar protocols, minus the floral offering. As they approached each one of these highlights, Choi would tell them how fortunate they were to have the opportunity to visit whatever they were about to visit. Then they would leave the bus, admire something that Mr. Choi ordered them to admire, reboard the bus, and move on to the next attraction. These included the Tower of the Juche Idea; communist carvings honoring Marx, Lenin, the proletariat and, of course, Kim Il-Sung; and their final stop, the Arch of Triumph.

  Unknown to the rest of his team, this was Sandor’s first contact point.

  The DPRK’s Arch of Triumph, situated within the city limits of Pyongyang, is larger than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, which is the only way Kim Il-Sung would have it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bergenn said as they climbed off the small bus for the fifth time and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the monument. “What, exactly, was the great triumph that this arch is supposed to commemorate?”

  Mr. Choi, hearing the comment, explained how the North Koreans had driven the Japanese from Korea in 1945 and, in the process, ended World War II.

  “Uh, call me crazy, but according to what I’ve heard, Korea wasn’t split in two until after the war,” Bergenn said. “And speaking of revisionist history,” he went on, but Sandor stopped him when he saw Mr. Choi’s sallow complexion growing paler by the moment.

  “We understand that we are guests here,” Sandor said. “We will enjoy this opportunity to see your Arch of Triumph.”

  Mr. Choi responded with a quick nod, then led them toward the monument.

  It was notable, again, how quiet things were within the capital city. As they walked together along the spotless sidewalk of this wide boulevard there was almost no vehicular traffic and very few pedestrians. Sandor felt the eeriness of this utterly antiseptic scene, remaining alert to the fact that—despite all appearances—everything they did was being carefully monitored.

  As they reached the plaza at the base of the arch they spotted the first tourist stand they had encountered since arriving in the capital city. A country purporting to encourage foreign visitors to come and
honor the Great Leader offered very little in the way of souvenirs of the event. The group had not come across so much as a postcard up to now. Even at this small booth, unlike Western tourist stands, the selection was limited. They had a few packaged snacks, some soft drinks, and a vast array of photographs, mostly of Kim Jong-Il. The rest of the counter and walls were covered with pins of various colors, sizes, and designs. Koreans are fond of pins, and it is not unusual for citizens of the DPRK to wear several at one time. As the other three men followed Choi toward the arch, Sandor fell back, wandering back toward the stand.

  An older woman stood inside the kiosk, while a younger, attractive woman was waiting alongside the counter.

  “Do you speak English?” Sandor asked them.

  The older woman did not reply. The younger girl said, “Yes, a little.”

  Sandor nodded. “This arch is taller than the one in Paris,” he said.

  “But not wider,” she told him.

  Sandor looked around, then returned his attention to the young woman. “I would like to buy some pins. I think four should do it,” he said.

  “Yes, here are four very nice pins.” She reached behind the display and held out four enamel-covered pins. Two had a colorful design surrounding the flag of the DPRK. The other two featured the same design around the image of Kim Il-Sung.

  Sandor began to hand her some won, the North Korean currency he exchanged for at the airport.

  “Take these,” she said softly, placing them in his hand. “The design is what you will seek in others. You understand?”

  He nodded, putting the pins in his jacket pocket.

  She turned to the other woman and handed her the bills. When she made change, the young woman turned back to Sandor and handed him some coins. “You are Sandor?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Hea,” she said with a shy smile.

  A voice behind Sandor said, “A name that means grace. And quite fitting, I must say young lady.” It was Zimmermann. “Making friends, Jordan?”

  “A wise man once told me that whenever traveling abroad, we are diplomats for our nation.”

  “Our beloved Canada, you mean,” Zimmermann said with a sarcastic smile.

  “Of course.”

  The others were approaching, led by Mr. Choi, and so the pretty young woman named Hea displayed the wares of her kiosk with a graceful wave of her hand. “Your friends, they would like a pin? A soda?”

  Mr. Choi was eyeing Sandor with more than his usual level of anxiety. Sandor smiled at the girl and shook his head. “No, I believe it’s time for us to go.”

  As their small group began to walk away, Sandor stayed back long enough to hear the girl whisper, “Look for this design at Arirang.” When he turned to her she mouthed the words, “I will see you there.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ABOVE THE CARIBBEAN, NORTH OF ST. MAARTEN

  HICHAM WAS SEATED comfortably in his first-class seat on the large jet that would carry him from St. Maarten to New York. He had made the connection from St. Barth’s without incident, and was now working on his cocktail and gazing out the oval window at the blue sky, wondering for a moment if perhaps Cardona was right. Hicham mused over the sins he had committed against his religion, both in the name of pleasure and in the service of his people, and wanted to believe that Allah would forgive him these transgressions. After all, he assured himself, he was a soldier in the war against the Western infidels, and that should be enough.

  As he took another drink he didn’t feel the first explosion, coming as it did from deep within the cargo hold, a small charge that an instant later ignited the larger blast. Everyone felt that one, as the device detonated several pounds of augmented C-4 plastique, blowing a hole in the side of the plane, rocking it off course as the entire belly of the aircraft suddenly caught fire below them.

  Passengers began to scream as their oxygen masks were released, hanging before them from their clear plastic tubes, impotent symbols of the horror they were about to endure.

  Inside the cockpit the crew struggled to level out the airliner as their emergency panels lit up with an array of emergency warnings. The navigator was already on his radio, calling for help, as the captain initiated rescue sequences, turned on the manual sprinkler systems, and ordered the first officer to assemble the staff, telling them to gather every fire extinguisher on board and take them below.

  But it was too late. When Adina’s men wired the C-4 into Hicham’s luggage, they also rigged lines that appeared on the scanning machine as the spine of the suitcase, but were actually tied to a second round of devastation—a highly combustible plastique that now exploded upward in another blast, tearing through the floor and followed by a flash of fire that began to engulf the passenger cabin.

  The screams were deafening as Hicham looked around him, feeling a mix of both terror and rage. He damned Adina and cursed his own stupidity. Then he realized in a final moment of awareness that this would be his last memory, the earsplitting screams of all these people with whom he was about to die.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NEW YORK CITY

  BILL STERNLICH WAS in his small, postmodern office in the new headquarters of the Times, standing high above Eighth Avenue. He was editing a magazine piece about celebrities in Southern California who were promoting solar energy, hybrid cars, and other environmentally fashionable options. He stopped, removed his glasses, and took a moment to consider how these pampered children of Hollywood could possibly reconcile their endorsement of a green lifestyle with their private jets, fur coats, and cocaine snorting. Then he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, replaying for the hundredth time his last conversation with Sandor.

  He did the checking Sandor requested and, as instructed, sent him a text twenty-four hours later, letting him know that he had not turned up anything new on the death of Ahmad Jaber. But since then he had heard a rumor that Jaber was not dead, that he was in the hands of United States intelligence.

  Sternlich was considering the consequences of that information, how he might get word of it to Sandor, and whether Sandor already knew.

  Just then Frank Donaldson barged into the room.

  Donaldson was in his late twenties, a graduate of Avon and Yale. Square-jawed and blond-haired, he was a go-getter from a wealthy family that subsidized his nascent career as a political reporter, not only because they could, but because they assumed it was the start of an ascending path that would ultimately lead him to the anchor desk of some network’s evening news program. Sternlich was alternately amused and bewildered by the fact that, given the young man’s privileged background, Donaldson’s views were even further to the left than his own.

  “Heard about the plane in St. Maarten?”

  Sternlich responded with a blank stare.

  “Get this,” Donaldson said, then shared the sketchy information that had just come through about the crash.

  “Any survivors?”

  “Doesn’t look good. Navy, Coast Guard and Air Force are on their way.”

  “Was it mechanical?”

  “Planes don’t just blow up in midair, Bill.”

  Sternlich nodded but said nothing.

  “What about that friend of yours?” Donaldson asked.

  Sternlich blinked.

  “Come on, you know who I mean, that guy from Washington. He seems pretty wired into what’s happening, right?”

  “And?”

  “And how about we give him a call? See if he can clue us in, get us a little advance info.”

  Sternlich shook his head slowly. “He’s unavailable right now.”

  “That so?” Donaldson planted himself in the chair opposite his editor. “He wouldn’t already be on his way there, would he?”

  “You have an overactive imagination, Frank.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who told me to follow my nose, right?”

  Sternlich leaned back and had a look at the young reporter. “If you follow it too close
ly you’ll get cross-eyed.”

  “Come on,” Donaldson said, “for the team.”

  Sternlich had never much liked that ex-jock chatter. “My friend is out of town,” he said.

  “So was this airline crash.”

  “He’s nowhere near the Caribbean, Frank.”

  “Okay, but there are some stories flying around; he might help us piece things together.”

  Sternlich waited.

  Donaldson pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward. “You remember that story about the explosion in Tehran a week or so ago?”

  Sternlich nodded.

  “A source I have in D.C. says there may be more to it than Al Jazeera is letting on.”

  “That would certainly be a shocker.”

  “Right. Well get this—there’s a rumor that Ahmad Jaber isn’t dead, that it wasn’t his body they recovered.”

  “I heard that rumor too.”

  “Did you also hear that Mr. Jaber might actually be a guest of our government at the moment? Right now, here in the States. At the Langley Hilton.”

  Sternlich did well to hide his surprise. “I’m listening.”

  “What if this plane crash is somehow connected to Jaber? What if it’s retaliation for his capture?”

  “That’s quite a stretch, Frank. What have you got, other than a wild guess?”

  “Nothing,” the young man admitted, sitting back as if deflated by the notion. Then he perked up again and said, “Unless maybe your pal can give us something to run with.”

  “My friend is in the Far East at the moment,” Sternlich told him, regretting the statement as soon as he uttered the words. “At least he was, as far as I know.”

  “The Far East?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Can you check? I mean, this could be huge, Bill.”

  “I don’t know what you expect him to be able to tell me.”

  Donaldson responded with one of those knowing smiles that belong to the privileged few who are graced with the realization that, in the end, they are better than you because of breeding, education, heritage and, above all else, money. “Look, it’s not as if we all don’t know your pal is a spook. Least you can do is see if he’s got anything he can tell us, then we can huddle up again. Right?”